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A WEEK OF PASSION ; 


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A NOVEL. 


/ 

Q By EDWARD JENKINS. 



NEW. YORK: 

OEORGE MUNllO, PUBLISHER, 

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,1 



DEDICATION 

IN FRANK ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF MANY COURTESIES 
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THIS STUDY OF HUMAN EMOTIONS 
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IS DEDICATED 

TO THE EARL OF CARNARVON. 


r 


A WEEK OF PASSION 


CHAPTER 1. 

A SENSATION. 

Across Regent Circus one June afternoon, at the lop of the sea- 
son, the sun, drooping down over Notting Hill, shot his bright rays 
along the broad plane of Oxford [street, on a scene of motley and 
vivacious tumult. The tide of traffic, which had been swelling all 
the day along the great channels of metropolitan movement, was 
now at its height. Running with a strong flush from east and west, 
and north, and south, its currents met and commingled their varied 
waters in this narrow lock, or strait, where the prismatic foam and 
spray from the aristocratic fountains of Mayfair, Belgravia, or 
Tyburnia flashed lightly against the dull, foul, turbid torrents that 
poured from a thousand fetid sources of misery and crime; and 
strong, impetuous currents of trade rushed biusqiiely by the calmer 
and more indolent eddies of wealth and pleasure. Up and down 
Oxford Street, up and down Regent Street, poured the incessant 
traffic, brisk, noisy, turbulent, with grating sound of wheels, and 
patter clatter of horses’ hoofs and cries of drivers, the deep, sea-like 
murmur of innumerable voices, and the tramp and shuffle of count- 
less feet. The lumbering omnibuses, perpetually coming and going, 
discharged or embarked with feverish haste hundreds of eager pas- 
sengers, while conductors and drivers exchanged injurious compli- 
ments with the harried, badgered policemen, who, exhibiting an 
Argus-like vigilance and mercurial activity, strove to give some 
sort of direction to the jangling currents of humanity that swirled 
around them. Kow and then some odd impediment would be rolled 
into the melee, an overladen truck, a broken-down cab, a fallen 
horse, an omnibus with an obstinate driver or unmanageable team, 
which would choke up fhe passage, change the currents into a 
whirlpool, and set the surging tides a-roaringall about it in hideous 
tumult, flere and there, throudi the more vulgar ruck of wagons, 
carts, cabs, hansoms, and omnibuses, fine horses in magnificent 
equipages where rank and beauty aired their gay plumage on silken 
cushions, picked their way in stately pride. On the pavement, 
the cro-wds of foot-passengers circled and jostled; hurrying, idling, 
sauntering; ogling, staring; bus3% vacant, alert; sly, mean, ele- 
gant, shabby, flashy; timid, brazen, guileless, vicious, or criminal 
— a strange congeries of miser}' and gayety, of sober diligence and 
empty lolly, of light, hopeful youth, and hopeless, disillusioned, 


4 


A AVEEK OF PASSIOX. 


perverted maturity— all orderly in the midst of disorder, and ex- 
ternally polite, if often hiding in their bosoms flames of Vesuvian 
passion and inhuman or unsocial sentiment. 

PI ere, then, this Thursday afternoon, on the 26 th of June, 188-, 
at twenty-seven minutes past 4 o’clock p.m. by the watch of Ser- 
geant Tuffg, of the Y Division, who took a note of the time— instan- 
taneously, without any preliminary movement or outcry, a loud ex- 
plosion, proceeding from the very center of the Circus, shook every 
heart and fiber of life in that motley crowd with fear and trembling. 
For a moment there was a hush, solemn and awful, then a univer- 
sal outcry, as the shuddering crowd rushed froiTi the center, and 
palpitating foot-passengers dived into the nearest shops for shelter, 
while shouts of “Fenians!” “Dynamite!” “ Nilro-Glycerine!” 
were jerked into the air from hundreds of pale and quivering lips. 
The commotion in the roadway was appalling. Horses started, 
snorted, plunged, broke away; vehicles collided and jammed their 
wheels; shouts, shrieks, oaths, and calls tor help filled the air. One 
horse— a magnificent thorough-bred— which had been close to the 
spot where the terrifying phenomenon occurred, reared high, pawed 
the air for a second or two, showing a chest and neck covered with 
blood and foam, and then falling on the near side, overturned the 
vehicle to which he was attached — an elegant cab, driven by a 
young exquisite, fashionably attired, a cigarette between his lips, a 
flower in his button hole. This young gentleman, having come up 
Kegent Street and drawn rein only an instant Dcfore to allow an 
omnibus coming from the City to pass, was remarkable for his cool 
manner, the perfection of his equipage, the chic of his little tiger, 
the beauty and mettle of his horse. 

When the first movement of consternation had subided, it was 
seen that a space had been cleared in the middle of the Circus, not 
by the dire effects of the explosion, but by that strange, instinctive 
tenor whicli decentralizes a mob in the midst of which some catas- 
trophe has happened. In this free space nothing was to be seen ex- 
cept the elegant cab, lying on its side, the maddened horse strug- 
gling to recover his footing, the young and fashionable Jehu extended 
motionless, with the cigareite still firmly clinched between his 
teeth, his hat lying some yards away; while the little tiger, who had 
fallen on his feet, was bravely attempting to get a hand on the bridle 
of the frantic animal. Only one other sign of the explosion, which 
had sent such a sudden thrill through the crowd, was visible. It 
was a hole in the macadam, looking more like the depression which 
would have been caused by the perpendicular fall of a cannon-ball 
of no great size, than the cavity one would have expected to have 
been made by a force capable of producing the noise and concussion 
experienced by the crowd. It was evident that the effect of the 
detonation had been intensely localized— many people had been 
shocked, and none apparently hurt, excepting always the prostrate 
dandy. Three or four policemen speedily ran from the various 
points where they had been stationed, to assist the only visible vic- 
tim of the accident. But, .even as they moved, their course was 
checked— they looked round with an expression of mingled wonder 
and fear, lor a cry of indescribable horror went up from the crowd. 
It proceeded from the tops of the omnibuses, from coachmen and 


A ’WEEK OE PASSIOK. 5 

liveried fool men, from ladies in the carriages, and people who had 
been picking their way across the Circus on fool. 

“ Blood!” 

Blood sprinkled in a fine rain, and here and there in large drops, 
on faces, on hands, on bright dresses, and light bonnets, and silken 
sunshades, and delicate-tinted gloves; on shiny hats, and ivory shirt- 
fronts, and white waistcoats, and with it here and there small 
knobs and particles of something which made people instinctively 
shudder and cry out, when they became conscious of its presence 
on skin or clothing! 

What had happened? 

Amid a scene of wild terror and confusion, the babble of a thou- 
sand tongues, the gathering pressure of eager mobs that came run- 
ning up Regent Street, down from Portland Place, and along Ox- 
ford Street, East and West, breathless, clamorous, asking: ” What 
is it? AVhat is it all about? Who is nurt?” the police vainly strove 
to keep back the crowd, and to acquire some idea of what had actu- 
ally occurred. It was no easy task. 

No one could be found who had seen anything — no one who had 
felt anything beyond a shocK; no bodies layabout, except that of 
the young gentleman, who appeared to be alive, though senseless 
from a cut on the head, but he vras evidently untouched by any ex- 
plosive. There were no palpable signs except that rain of flesh and 
blood, which had sent a ghastly thrill of horror through the crowd, 
and a dent in the roadway about the size of a French wash-basin. 

IModern science had achieved a fresh marvel. A horrible crime 
had been committed in the presence of a thousand people, and there 
appeared to be no traces left, either of the victim or the perpetrators. 

Sergeant Tugg, of the Y Division, alone seemed to have retained 
his presence of mind, fie rapidly gave orders to the two or three 
policemen at hand, and induced a few bystanders of steadier nerves 
than the rest to assist in keeping back the crowd. One x>oliceman 
picked up the prostrate gentleman, and he w^as conveyed to a mourn- 
ing shop at the corner, wdiere the young ladies, trembling with fear, 
and palpitating with the unusual excitement of having to tend a 
handsome beau under such circumstances, fluttered about him with 
kind but useless attentions. The sergeant himself seized the horse’s 
bridle and managed to pull him up on his feet, the broken shafts 
dangling at his flanks. The animal stood trembling; his face and 
silky chestnut breast seemed to have been dashed over with a mixt- 
ure *^of crimson and black. The policeman looked at his hands, 
which had touched the breast of the horse, and saw wdth a shudder 
that it was blood which had drenched the noble creature. Looking 
round keenly he could find no trace on the ground of anything 
w'hich w’ould account lor the explosion. The little tiger, standing on 
his toes, held the horse’s head on the ofl-side, and tried to soothe 
him with his voice. The boy’s eyes looked as if they would hurst 
from liis head, his cheeks were deadly pale, his teeth chultcred- 

‘‘ What was. it, young man?” said the sergeant. ” Was your 
master a-carr^ing hexplosives through the streets, hey?” 

Ilis e.ye had the severity of Justice in her first inquisitive mood. 

” My lord,” cried the boy, ” carrying explosions in his cab! Stuff 
and nonsense, bobby. Why, didn’t you see what happened?” 


6 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 


“ No, sir, or else I wouldn’t a hasked you ’’—with dignity. 

The boy stretched his hand. 

“ Just as we w'as arrived there, right by the lamp, and my lord—” 

” What lord?” 

‘‘ Why, the Earl ot Tilbury. 1 should have thought you’d 
a-know’d him. My lord had pulled up Pam— that’s the horse’s 
name — to let an omnibus pass, and 1 were a looking round from be- 
hind to see what were up, and there — right there, where that little 
’ hole is — there were a gentleman, a short gentleman, five feet six or 
so, passing right in front of our horse, when all of a sudden like— 
whift! there was a noise, and he went into ten thousand million 
pieces. 1 see it in a flash, and 1 don’t know no more. That there 
on the horse’s neck and on your hands is what come from him, ser- 
geant. Maybe it’s one o’ them dinamighty-ists.” 

Sergeant Tugg examined the boy for a moment sternly, as became 
a member of the Force, listening to such a tale from the lips of 
horsey youth, to see whether he w as trying to “ gammon ” him; but 
the tiger’s aspect and manner were altogether too serious to admit of 
such a suspicion. He was dreadfully frightened, and in earnest, and 
the policeman, while he tried to clean his hands with a dirty hand- 
kerchief, was so stunned by the unheard-of explanation the boy had 
griven, that he was only awakened out of his reverie by the press- 
ure of the crowd upon him, w’hich had become dangerous. He 
drove his elbows out vigorously. 

” Back, 1 say! Bigby, Wiggets, Jones, keep ’em all back!” 

” What is it? What is it?” cried the crowd. 

The sergeant could not resist so great an opportunity of showing 
ofi: his official perspicacity. 

” It’s a Fenian houtrage! A man has blown hisself up!” 

” What does he say?” shouted those who were out of hearing. 

A stentorian voice, near the guardian of public safety, bellowed 
in a tone of raillery, 

” He says it’s a Fenian has blown himsilf up with dynamite!” 

A London crow’d is as changeable as yeast. It ferments or goes 
flat, or is sweet or sour in a moment. The concourse, wdiich an in- 
stant before had been shuddering with an indefinable horror, now 
suddenly burst into a rattling peal of derision and laughter. 

“Ha! ha! ha!” 

” Ho! ho! ho!” 

Say, bobby, where is he? Where’s he gone to?” 

Pick him up, bobby. Save the pieces!” 

” Run him in!” etc., etc. 

Nothing witty, but chaff— none the less aggravating to a dignified 
officer of the peace. 

The laughter w\as prolonged all round the vast concourse, which 
had became, massed in tht; Circus, ai^d through the skirts of the 
crowA', now extending far down the adjacent streets, as the report 
of the sergeant’s theory went from mouth to mouth. The idea of a 
Fenian blowing himself up in this sensational manner seemed to be 
diverting. 

Sergeant Tugg looked round at the man with the big vuice— a 
stout, florid, yellow^-hair-ed I'orkshireman, with great broad shoul- 


A WEEK OE PASSIOK. 


7 

ders, dressed in a light homespun suit, and showing on his ample 
bosom about halt an acre of linen. 

“ Your name, sir?” he said. 

‘‘My name! What for?” said the other, laughing. “You’re 
not going to arrest me for telling them what you said?” 

“ Ko; I want you as a witness.” 

“ Mel” cried the Yorkshireman, looking round appealingly to the 
crow’d. “ 1 know nothing about it.” 

“ Don’t you? Then 1 want your coat and waistcoat and shirt. ” 

He pointed to the articles. 

The Y’orkshi reman looked down, and for the first time became 
aware that he, too, was splashed with spots of crimson and black. 
He turned pale. 

“By 1 What’s that?” 

“ Blood!” said the sergeant, with a solemnity which at any other 
time would have struck the observer as comic, as he pointed with a 
huge forefinger. “ Bits of a man’s flesh among it, 1 think. There! 
see, on your shirt, a few hairs — some bits of wool.” 

“ Oh, dash it— 1 say, let’s get out of this!” said the man, lifting 
his powerful arms, and struggling to back out through the crowd. 

“ Not so fast,” said the sergeant, quietly, putting his fingers on 
the man’s shoulder. “ Your name and address. 1 must have those 
things.” 

“ So you shall, but; tor Heaven’s sake let me go and take them 
off! Samuel Hilton, Beverley, Yorkshire. 1 am at the Craven 
Hotel.” 

“Good. Y'ou will let me have your clothes to-night? 1 will call 
for them. Stay, do you mean to say that you saw nothing?” 

“ 1 saw nothing at all — on my honor. 1 was there — coming this 
way — but 1 w’^as looking round at— at a lady. Suddenly 1 heard a 
noise that nearly deafened me, and a strong wind like went past me. 
Tnen 1 had to jump out of the way of this trap, or it would have 
fallen on me. That’s all 1 know.” 

The Yorkshireman went oft, and the policeman turned to look tor 
others. Thereupon every one who had on him any ot those small, 
ghastly marks of the disaster began to button himself up and get 
away as fast as possible; for Londoners are not fond ot going into 
the witness box at the Old Bailey. It is too rude and open a con- 
fessional even for the most pious of men. 

Nevertheless, by great energy and activity, the police, now that 
they had seized the idea, worked at it, and succeeded in getting the 
names of about thirty people who had been near the spolt, and had 
either felt the shock of the explosion or bore some traces of it about 
their persons. Not one of the crowd was hurt. No one, except the 
tiger, appeared to have seen the victim or the agent ot the explosion. 
The police were convinced that the boy’s account was correct. An 
unknown man, dressed as a gentleman, crossing Oxford Circus in 
broad daylight, had suddenly exploded in the middle of a concourse 
of moving humanity, and* gone into a hundred thousand pieces, 
leaving no traces except minute spots of blood and bits of flesh and 
clothing, which had fallen in a shower over a large space. There 
whs no clew to this individual's name, position, address, or to the 


8 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


motives wliich bad brought him there, idiarged with the fearful 
forces by which he had been insmntaneousl}' reduced to atoms. 

Before midnight (he news of the catastrophe had spread through 
all that part of the metropolis which, during the season, constitutes 
“ London;” at the clubs, in the House of Commons, at the dinner- 
tables of society, nothing els^. was talked of : it was bruited about 
among the shop-keepers and other dependents of the wealthy quar- 
ters; in the servants’ halls of Belgtavia, Mayfair, Bromptou, and 
Kensington. The evening: papeis had hastily headed their reports, 

Supposed Fenian Outrage,” though who were the outragers and 
■who the outraged by this strange"^event, beyond the unfortunate 
person who had spontaneously exploded, the editors did not even 
hazard a guess. It was not, however, till next morning that, 
means of the indefatigable reporters and the unwearied printers of 
our colossal service of journalism, the whole of the four millions of 
London were able to form a clear idea of whf t had happened, and 
to learn how much and how little was known about the incident, 
its victim, and its causes. The account of “The Thunderer,” 
which was the least sensational, will inform the reader of all that 
had been discovered and suspected within the few hours which in- 
tervened between six in the afternoon 'of Thursday, the 26th, and 
three in the morning of Friday, the 27th instant. 

(From ‘‘The Thunderer.”) 

“Yesterday afternoon, at about half past four o’clock, there oc- 
curred in Regent Circus one of the most mysterious and horrible 
events wliich it has ever been our lot to chronicle in these columns. 
In full daylight, in the midst of a crowd of pedestrians of all classes, 
and a current of vehicles of every description, a loud and startling 
explosion took place, quite close to the refuge established for the 
protection of foot-passengeis in the center of the Circus. The 
utmost terror was excited in the varied and busy multitude which is 
always, at that hour, to be found, especially during the season, con- 
centrated at that junction of traffic. 

“ When the explosion took place a sudden panic seized the crowd, 
who dashed toward the pavements and into the shops, while the 
disorder and commotion produced in the vehicular traffic beggars 
description. Besides the main actor, agent, or victim, as we may 
please to call the individual thus incontinently blown out of exist- 
ence. and into atoms so minute that it may be said nothing remains 
of him. there was only one other person seriously hurt, and that un- 
happily a young and distinguished member of the House of Lords. 
We regret to have to report that the Earl of Tilbury, who, at the 
moment, was driving across the Circus in his cab, and was close to 
the scene of the explosion, was, owing to the sudden frenzy of his 
horse, thrown out on his head, and we learn, from inquiries made 
at the last moment, is still lying insensible in the family mansion in 
Grosvenor Place. Sir Alfred Marks and Sir Claude Crampton were 
summoned to a consull alien by the family physician, Doctor Wil- 
braham, and have remained with his lordship up to the hour of our 
going to press. We are deeply pained to learn that thev have 
formed a very unfavorable opinion of the case, and Lord Tilbury’s 
mother, the Countess of Tilbury, has been summoned from Linton 


A WEEK OF PASSIOJ^. 


9 


to her son’s bedside. Ko sooner bad the crowd begun to recover 
from the terror caused by this extraordinary incident than it was ob- 
served that no other damaa:e had been done than the formation of a 
sligiit depression in the roadway at the spot where the victim of 
this horrible death was standing, and the incidental injury to the 
Earl of Tilbury, which is in itself a sufficiently grave matter. The 
young earl only came of aj[»e a few months since, but his distin- 
guished abilities, his rare promise, his vast wealth, and his position 
in society, will create anxiety on his behalf among an immense cir- 
cle of eminent friends. It was some time before the police on the 
spot could form any consistent theory of the cause of the accident. 
At first it was supposed that Lord Tilbury might have been carry- 
ing some dynamite cartridges in his cab; but this was promptly de- 
nied Dy his tiger, an intelligent young man named Lightbones, who 
is stated to have behaved with remarkable coolness, and who has 
given the police the most important information they possess as to 
the circumstances of the accident. It appears that the Earl of Til- 
bur3^ having pulled up suddenly, the young man, Lifrhtbones, peered 
rapidly round the hood of the cabriolet to Ascertain the cause of the 
delay. At that instant he saw — only for a brief glance— a short, 
square-built, gentlemanl}^ looking man, clad in some dark vest- 
ments, the color of which he had not time to determine, who seemed 
to be hesitating for a moment w'hether to cross in front of the horse 
alongside an omnibus traveling from east to west. Lord Tilbury, 
who had come from Piccadilly, was going up Kegent Street. Light- 
bones had scarcely set eyes on this individual, when, to use the ex- 
pression of the lad himself, ‘ he exploded all to pieces, ’ with a loud 
report, scattering blood and minute fragments of his body all around 
for a considerable distance. Hats, coats, parasols, etc., received a 
shower of this dreadful human debris, creating a very vivid Im- 
pression of horror on the startled crowd. The neck and breast 
of the horse Lord Tilbury w’as driving received some portion 
of the shower, and yet the animal was not even singed by the 
explosion, which seems to have gone directly upward, and not 
downward or sideways. Singularly enough, however, though 
the legs and feet and boots of the author or sufferer of the 
accident have entirely disappeared, along with the rest of his 
body, the trace left by the explosion is comparatively slight, the 
pavement being indented to the depth only of ten inches, to a 
diameter of about a foot or sixteen inches. At the moment of the 
explosion the man was standing between the head of Lord Tilbury’s 
horse and one of the omnibuses of the L. G. O. Company, which 
runs to Notting Hill, being about equidistant from both; but the 
force of the explosion seems to have been rather in the direction of 
Lord Tilbury, for, on exariii nation, the paneling of the omnibus 
shows few signs of its proximity to the dreadful catastrophe, 
although its windows were fractured. Hence.it is conjectured that 
the explosive substance, whatever it was, was placed on that ^ide of 
the individual which was nearest to his lordship; but this is mere 
conjecture, and, in the opinion of some theorists, the fact is taken 
10 prove exactly the opposite conclusion, namely, that the greatest 
force of the explosion was exerted in the direction where it encount- 
ered the greatest resistance. This, and otner interesting problems 


10 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


arising out of this curious and mysferious case, will, however, we 
are informed, be submitted to Professor Green and other experts, 
and will doubtless be cleared up in the inquiry which has been 
ordered by the Home Secretary, who, accompanied by the Chief 
Commissioner and Mr. Sontag, head of the Detective Department, 
visited and inspected the spot at a late hour last night. 

“ The coroner for tbe district, Mr. Walpole Samuelson, was im- 
mediately notified of the occiiirence, but we understand that he has 
considerable doubt as to his power to open an inquest, seeing that 
the destruction of the subject of the catastrophe was so complete 
that there is not even a remnant for a coroner’s jury to sit upon, and 
consequently no means whatever of identification. The matter has 
been referred to the law-officers of the Crown, and the coroner will 
be guided by their decision, which will probably be given in the 
course of to-day. 

“ It adds an additional trait to the romantic horror and mystery 
of this event that, up to the hour of going to press, the police have 
been totally unable to discover any trace or clew to the identity of 
the person who has met his fate in this strange manner, or to the 
perpetrators, if any, of the outrage. No one appears to have no- 
ticed the defunct except the lad Lightbones. A Yorkshire gentle- 
man, who has given his name and address to the police, and who 
had his coat, waistcoat, and shirt spattered with the remains of the 
deceased, states that though he was near the spot, and felt the shock 
of the explosion, he had not noticed any one in his vicinity answer- 
ing to the description given by Lord Tilbury’s servant. No one has 
as yet come forward to reclaim a lost relative, but possibly, during 
the day, the publicity given through our columns (mc*) may lead to 
some communication being made to the police which will give them 
a clew. Meantime all is buiied in pure conjecture. The first idea 
of the police authorities was that the Fenians were concerned in the 
outrage. But the incident is too strange and unique to admit of 
such an explanation. The Fenians have not yet shown any dispo- 
sition to risk their own lives in their wild and wicked efforts to 
alarm society and mystify the authorities. Supposing the individual 
to have been a I’enian carrying a machine to be used for the nefari- 
ous object of frightening the English public, it is quite conceivable 
that it might have prematurely exploded, but it may be presumed 
that it would have been charged with a much greater force than 
was sufficient to blow only one human being to atoms. A far more 
plausible theory is that some chemist or mining engineer may have 
been carrying in his pocket a small quantity of nitro-glycerine or a 
dynamite cartridge, for experiment, and have become the victim of 
his foolhardy carelessness. However it may be, the affair is one of 
the most mysterious than has ever tested the detective capacity of 
our police, and their inquiries and investigations will be followed 
by the public with feverish interest.” 

“ The Thunderer ” also published “ Another Account by an Eye- 
witness,” who, as it turned out, had seen nothing of any con se- 

* “ The Thunderer ” never acknowledges the existence of any other means of 
publicity. 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


11 


quence, but \vho was able to say so with a cerlain graphic appnratus 
ot suggestion which had struck the editor, and several letters trom 
persons who were more or less near the scene ot the catastrophe 
when it occurred; also one letter from an enterprising tradesman in 
Piccadilly, who, giving iris name and address, declared that he had 
felt the shock of the explosion in his shop, and that his watch had 
stopped at the precise moment ot the catastrophe. 

There is nothing- London loves so much as a mystery, and this 
was one ot a novel and romantic order. The excitement among all 
circles increased during tlie whole of the 27lh of June, and arrived 
at an intense pitch when an evening journal issued a “special,” 
staling that a single trace had been found of the chief actor in this 
horrible tragedy. A photographer’s assistant, in arranging the 
blinds of his studio at midday, to reduce the brilliancy of the light 
for a lady ot a certain age, who was sitting for her portrait, had 
discovered, lying on the ledge ot a window at the top of the house, 
which was situated in Oxford Street, about two hundred and fifty 
yards from the scene ot the explosion, a human hand, bearing evi- 
dence ot having been violently torn from the wrist ot its proprietor, 
and the police now had in their possession a valuable, it imperfect, 
clew to the identity of the deceased The hand was a right hand, 
appearing to have been tfiat of a muscular man of past the middle 
age, who, however, w^as not accustomed to manual labor. It was 
sprinLied on the back with fine hairs, had no ring on the finder, 
but exhibited one important peculiarity. The upper joint of the 
little finger was bent, as if that joint had once been broken. On 
submitting the hand, however, to the inspection ot eminent surgeons, 
they gave it as their opinion that this slight deformity, which would 
have passed almost unnoticed when the owner was living, and kept 
the hand closed or in movement, was congenital. 

The excitement now rose to tJie power. The roofs of all the 
houses within a mile of the Circus were searched in the hope of 
discoveiing other relics of the mysterious unknown. Scotland Yard 
W’as inundated with articles gathered on the house-tops, embracing 
every variety of rejected rubbish, like old tooth-brushes, broken 
spectacles, remnants of worn-out boots, pieces of whalebone, broken 
combs, and ragged pieces of clothing, an infinity ot things which it 
could be seen at a glance were the casual jetsam of the dwellers in 
the house-tops of l^ondon, and in no way whatever connected with 
the individual whose ghastly and original exit from London society 
had created such a sensation. 


CHAPTER 11. 

AT THE HOME OFFICE. 

Then happenedsomething which always happens in London when 
the identity of those who have perished by crime or disaster is a 
matter ot doubt: a thing which affords ihe police and every reflect- 
ing man so much to think of regarding the hidden history of that 
great ocean of humanity, the English metropolis. No less than 
thirteen persons of the male sex were, within the next two days. 


12 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


signalized to the police by anxious lelatives or officious friends as 
missiny;, as answering more or less correctly to tlie meager descrip- 
tion given by Lightbones of the man he had seen; and some of them 
as having a deformity of the little finger of the right hand! It is 
impossible to form any theory about such a singlilar mania, but 
there is no doubt that persons exist, of weak intellects and a perverse, 
petty conceit, who, in default of any other means of acquiring a 
temporary notoriety, will try to gain a factitious importance by as- 
sociating themselves or their friends with some sensational drama. 

They have lost a relative or a friend; they wish to put themselves 
in evidence, before the greatest possible number of people, as being 
connected in some way, however remotely, with that about which 
all the world is talking. They are perfectly aware from the first that 
the victim or the sufferer is not the person in whom they are inter- 
ested, but that is of no consequence. If they can, only for a tew 
days, pose as relatives or connections of any one whom crime or 
accident has made notorious, it they can only get the whole ma- 
chinery of justice set a-going for a short time at their instance, the}" 
fancy that they have acquired a certain importance in the eyes of 
their friends. To do this, they will even stretch a point and make 
false statements about dress and appearance. The}'' are able ever 
afterwaid to say something like this— 

“ You remember the fellow that blew up in Regent Circus? VTell, 
you know, my aunt’s husband’s eldest son b}' liis first wife, w ho 
was a clerk at Batty & Levison’s, in the City, disappeared only a 
week before the occurrence. The moment 1 read of it in the 
papers, I said to myself—' That was Joe Jackson.’ Joe was only 
five feet six, and always dressed in dark clothes. Well, sir, 1 went 
to Scotland Yard and saw the police. Then 1 was introduced to 
Mr. Sontag, of the Detective Department. Then 1 had a corre- 
spondence with the chief commissioner. They laughed at me, sir, 
and were most impertinent. And then 1 complained of the conduct 
of the police to the Home Secretary. Yes, sir, 1 wrote a letter my- 
self to the Home Secretary. 1 received a reply from his secretary. 
See, here it is he produces it lor the thousandth time from his 
pocket. “ ‘ Sir, 1 am directed by the Home Secretary to acknowl- 
edge receipt of your letter of the 10th instant, relating to the con- 
duct of the police in regard to the disappearance of Mr. Joseph 
Jackson, and to state that the matter has been referred to the Chief 
Commissioner of Police for explanations.’ ” 

“ Did you ever get the explanations?” 

” No. Joe turned up in Buenos Ayres; he had run aw'ay with a 
liundred pounds. But 1 tell you, sir, if ever 1 have occasion to go 
to Scotland Yard again, they’ll know^ wiio they have to deal with. 
The Home Secretary must have given them an awful wigging!” 

Thus a conceited fool is able to waste the time and tax the ener- 
gies of a great department, and wmuld rather have been kicked dowm 
the stairs of the Home Oflice than be unable to say that he had been 
there. 

Often the relatives of some man who has disappeared will exhibit 
the most exasperating anxiety to identify him with some discovered 
body which he did’not remotely resemble, and will insist upon their 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 


13 


dismal fancy in the face of patent impossibilities. Altogether, the 
policeman, out of comic operas, may sing, with a good deal of dole- 
ful emphasis, that in reality his “ lot is not a happy one!” When 
engaged in the pursuit of a criminal he not onl}' has to meet and 
counteract all the wiles and tricks of confederates, but he is being 
continually hampered by the children and imbeciles who throw 
themselves between his legs. Crops of idle suggestions and foolish 
conjectures, of feeble criticisms and commonplace counsels, spring- 
ing from conceited and ignorant brains, are harvested and delivered 
(jratis in Scotland Yard; and abuse, which is severe in the inverse 
ratio of the abuser’s competence to pronounce an opinion, is often 
showered down on ” Bobby’s ” devoted head. Defeated, detected as 
a humbug, and summarily ejected from Scoland Yard, the busy- 
body rushes to the press, and the groaning editor, gnashing his teeth, 
jams down whole sheaves of foolish scribblings into his overbur- 
dened waste-paper basket. He can bear witness, at all events, that a 
time of sensation has a fatal influence in developing the pestilent 
activity of all the idiots. 

A fair proportion of the cases reported to the police in the present 
instance were no doubt to be attributed to the egregious and mis- 
chievous activity of some such persons as we have designated: but, 
after making every allowance, a sutflcient number of apparently 
authentic cases were left to make one shudder at the extent of the 
unknown, unsuspected, and undiscovered crimes of London life. 

The Home Secretary and tiie Chief Commissioner of Police, both 
of whom took a keen interest in this case, because of its novelty and 
horror, were distracted with vexation and despair at the complica- 
tions introduced by all these cases into the problem they were en- 
deavoring to solve. They were for the hundredth time appalled at 
the vastness of the mystery of London crime, and tire inadequacy 
of their small organization, in face of the colossal task of the surveil- 
lance of four millions of people, whom science and civilization 
were every day furnishing with fresh weapons for crime and in- 
creased facilities for escaping detection. The leading journal was 
some time ago congratulating the age on the fact that it was becom- 
ing more and more diflicult for the criminal to slip from the hands 
of justice. That is probably true in cases where the crime anil the 
criminal are known, and it is only a question of verifying the facts 
of the one, and of detecting and catching the other. But those who 
thoughtfully study the crimes that do come to light, or the lurid 
flashes that are sometimes emitted by casual circumstances in crim- 
inal investigations or death-bed confessions, will be convinced that 
there are vast catacombs of underground crime which are never il- 
lumined even by the taper of justice, and still less laid bare to the 
sunlight of publicit}'. If our "book — by showing- how conceivable 
it is, without any violation of probabilities, in the present state of 
science and organization of society, that great crimes may be com- 
mitted with a reasonable possibility of escaping detection— shotild 
only 'help to excite attention to a secret and tremendous peril which 
underruns our complicated civilization, we shall not grudge our 
critics the pleasure of discrediting it as a work of art. 

At the Home Ofiice the minister, the chief commissioner, and the 


14 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


chief of the Detective Department* were met in conclave on the 
morning ot Saturday, the 29th ot June. Between twenty and thirty 
dockets were spread out on the table. On the mantel-piece stood a 
large bottle or glass jar of spirits, and in it could be discerned a 
white body, held in suspense by a silken thread, depending from the 
center of a large cork. It was a human hand. The Home Secre- 
tary, who for purposes of social and political tactics is short-sighted, 
had been, for the twentieth lime, examining it through his large gold 
pince-nez. 

“ 1 would give,” he said, with a sort ot sigh, as he took off his 
glasses and tapped with them on the bottle, “ a thousand pounds to 
know whose hand that was. We are here,” he continued, turning 
round with the pomp and solemnity ol manner which were habitual 
with him — ” we are here in the presence. Sir Henry, of one ot the 
most singular and horrible mysteries that ever startled tlie nerves of 
civilized society or taxed the ingenuity ot justice.” 

The chief commissioner, as a born Englishman, was a lover and an 
utterer of platitudes; but his were the platitudes of a man of busi- 
ness and fact, and not those of the statesman or philosopher. He 
was eminently practical, and did not appreciate very highly the 
pompous and sonorous periods of his chief. The statement, how- 
ever, was beyond controversy, and he appeared to accept it with be- 
coming respect. 

” True,” he said, ‘‘ Sir Walter Grandison, 1 h§,ve never heard of 
a more extraordinary case; and these papers and letters only make 
it more difficult to unravel the mystery. You have read them— what 
do you think?” 

The head of the Detective Department was sitting a little apart, 
with his Hps firml}’^ closed, his head on one side, his elbow resting on 
his knee, his thumb turning his hat slowly round on the flat of the 
hand. He watched his two chiets with an air of mingled respect 
and compassion, his bright, eye twinkling the while in a cunning 
manner, as if to say—” If you gentlemen would leave it to me, and 
offer a good sound reward, 1 should soon unravel the ‘ mystery,’ as 
m,y chief elegantly remarks.” 

” 1 think,” said Sir Walter Grandison, in reply to the commis- 
sioner, ” that there is ‘ something rotten in the State ot Denmark.’ 
The number of disappearances is simply phenomenal, and signifi- 
cant of a state ol society which is a melancholy reflection on our 
national and social morality.” 

The Home Secretary seemed to be elaborating a leading article tor 
” The Thunderer.” 

“ Dash it!” said the chief commissioner to himself. To the Home 
Secretary he said— ” True, Sir Walter Grandison, but, with your 
permission, 1 meant to inquire of you, as a lawyer and Home Secre- 
tary, what is your opinion about these cases.” 

” AVell,” replied the minister, ” if you mean have 1 formed any 
theory about them, 1 confess 1 have riot. Some of them appear to 

*We believe the more coi-rect title of this functionary is “ Chief of the Crim- 
inal Investigation Office;” but we do not draw any of these portraits from life, 
and as the main purpose of the story is not affected by the character or details 
of the police organization, our sketch of it is rather an ideal than a real one, in 
some respects perhaps showing more what it ought to be than Avhat it is. 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


15 

be genuine, some to be hoaxes. One or two of them seem to suggest 
lines of investigation which it would be worth our while to follow 
up; but, on tbe other hand, one hardly knows where to begin. If 
these papers are to be believed in, we are asked to clear up a dozen 
private romances. \Ye have neither time nor money to waste in 
frivolous inquiries. Is there any one of these cases, which, in your 
opinion, points more suggestively than the rest to an answer to our 
enigmal” 

“ I can hardly say that. Sir Walter, butl have gone through them 
with some pains, and have analyzed them carefully. Some, as you 
know, are letters, some are reports which have been taken down at 
Scoland Yard or other police-stations, from the mouths of people 
coming forward with information — as usual, these statements are 
mostly illusory on the face of them, and of no value. Many stupid 
people have a morbid desire to mix themselves up in criminal affairs 
— others of these statements are anonymous. And one naturally 
questions the good faith of anonymous communications. They 
generally proceed from two classes— confederates or imbeciles — iho 
latter preponderating, i'et, now and then an anonymous commu- 
nication may be worth attention. One can readily conceive that 
there may be personal or family reasons why the writers do not wish 
to be known. There are others which are obvious hoaxes. It is 
hardly credible, but it is true, that there is a class of persons so low 
and base in their moral sentiments as to fancy it is a clever or 
humorous thing to hoax the police. Two or three come from the 
clubs, from idle men, who, I believe, abound there — you know 
probably more about that than 1 do — ” The minister bowed with 
a smile, for he was a member of the Whig Club — “ They are our old 
friends the officers of the array, who seem to have nothing better to 
do than to write ridiculous letters to every department of State, and 
to the public pre.ss, whenever anything happens about which they 
think they know something. This one. for instance, from a Lieu- 
tenant-colonel Smith, a retired Indian officer, dated from Bermond- 
sey, where he seems to be hiding his laurels on half-pay or a pension. 
It is worth reading. He says : 

“ ‘ It may be of some interest to the police, and may possibly give 
them some clewr to the mystery of the Regent Circus, to learn that, 
on the morning of Thursday, the 26th inst., at twenty minutes past 
nine in the morning, 1 took the omnibus from Grange Road, Ber- 
mondsey, tor the Bank of Bngland, in order to attend a meeting of 
The People’s Cooked Meat Company, Limited, of which 1 am a 
director, and that 1 distinctly noticed sitting opposite to me a short, 
stout man, apparently of about fifty or fifty-five years of age, of florid 
complexion, and clad in a suit of rusty black. This man attracted 
my attention by the singularity of his manner. He was breathing 
heavily, as if he had been running, and he wiped his head, which 
was neaily bald, with an old bandana pocket-handkerchief, such 
as one was accustomed to see used by military men in India, when 
serving the East India Company, or the Government of India, as 1 
have had the honor to do for nearly forty years, having joined the 
company’s service at the early age of twenty. His agitated manner 
led me to watch him closely, and 1 overheard him say to his neigh- 
bor, who appeared to be a friend (or confederate), “ 1 had a narrow 


16 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK". 


squeak tor it. 1 wouldn’t be late for twenty pounds,” or words to 
that effect, indicating a great desire to get into the City, which I 
need not remind you would be on the direct way to Regent Circus. 
But the most remarkable fact is to come. When we arrived in King: 
William Street, City, he took out of his pocket an old portemonuaie, 
which 1 observed contained only a tew silver and copper coins, and. 
as he picked out the fare to give it to the conductor, with his light 
hand, 1 observed that the back of it was covered with hairs of a reddish 
color, and his little finger which he held stuck out from the others, 
was crooked at the upper joint! Arrived at the Mansion House, he 
jumped quickly out ot the omnibus and ran down Lombard Street, 
after exclaiming to his friend ” Sovey I” (? French Suave) “ I’ve five 
minutes to spare.” 1 have little doubt in my own mind, from the 
descriptions 1 have read in the public press, that this was the very 
individual who came to so lamentable an end in the circus, and 1 
strongly advise the police to make inquiries in Bermondsey as to 
whether any person of the description I have given is missing from 
that district. 1 may add that 1 am certain if 1 saw the hand I should 
know it again. And 1 am quite prepared, if my omnibus fare is 
paid, to come to Scotland Yard to identify the hand now in the pos- 
session ot the police, and 1 may, at the same time, be able to give 
them some valuable hints as to the manner in which the inquiry 
should be conducted, having on several occasions in India assisted 
the commissioner of the PonderabaDoo District in his investigations 
into crimes committed by the natives, and received the thanks of 
the lieutenant-governor for my services. ’ 

” There,” said the chief commissioner, throwing the letter on the 
table; “could such an imbecile production as that have emanated 
from any one but an ex-army officer with nothing to do, and no 
brains to do it with?” 

The Home Secretary smiled and tin; chief of the detectives giinned, 
without opening his lips; a curious and ghastly operation, (ff which 
only a favored few are capable, while living, and his small eyes 
twinkled again. 

“ Preposterous!” said the minister, shrugging his large shoulders. 
“ But you have more important communications than that. 1 re- 
member one or twm struck me very forcibly.” 

“ Quite so. But 1 was about to remark, in continuation ot my 
analysis, that some of these communications clearly overlap one an- 
other, and refer to the same cases. Others are quite apocryphal. 
But the next result of my analysis is that some thirteen persons are 
missing, ot whom three are stated to have finger-joints injured, and 
six a deformity of the little finger. Even that is an incredible 
number when we consider that they are declared to have become 
missing within the past fortnight, and that the number of persons- 
in the population with deformed little finger-joints must be a mi- 
nute fraction, say, at a guess, not one quarter or one fifth ot one per 
cent. But admit one half of one per cent, out of four millions, 
that would be one half ot forty thousand — or twenty thousand per- 
sons. Of that twenty thousand six disappear in a fortnight, or 
three per week, making 156 per annum, exactly 7 decimal SO in the 
thousand, and the normal death-rate from all causes, for the entire 
population, is only about 26 per thousand! You see it is impossible. 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 


17 


and.yet these people who send us the iatormation appear to be quite 
sincere, giving minute particulars, names, addresses, ages, descrip- 
tion, and so on.” 

‘‘Have you made any inquiries at the places indicated?” asked 
the minister. 

‘‘Not yet, at all of them, hut the police report — do they not, 
Sontag?— that four of the cases appear to be authentic.” 

‘‘ They do. Sir Henry,” answered the detective, shutting his 
mouth up sharp after letfing out these words, as if he were appre- 
hensive lest others should run out of it, as the shot used to do out of 
the old-fashioned shot-belts, unless they were cunningly handled. 

‘‘ Hum!” said the Home Secretary. ‘‘It is very odd!” 

The chief detective shifted in his chair and changed legs, and 
with a preliminary ” hem!” to attract the attention of his superior, 
he said : 

'* Has it occurred to you, Mr, Secretary and Commissioner, that 
perhaps some of these letters were written expressly to throw us off 
the track?” 

'i'he Home Secretary, struck by the observation, looked round 
sharply, first at the detective and then at the chief commissioner. 

‘‘ Of course that too has occurred to me,” said Sir Henry. ‘‘ It 
is so old a trick. But just think how wide and inipoitant a com- 
bination would be needed to carry out a plot for niisleadini: us in 
five or six different cases, by a new and different fiction each time! 
We are agreed in discarding the notion that Fenianisni has played 
any part in this dr? ma, and 1 can conceive of no other organization 
whicn could command either the resources or the machinery for 
such a plot.” 

‘‘lam not so sure, Mr. Commissioner,” said Mr. Sontag. ‘‘ This 
is a very curious, profound, and ingenious problem. 1 can not 
bring myself to believe that this is a case of suicide. It is hardly 
conceivable that any one contemplating suicide would be so diabolical 
as to commit it in this fashion, in the middle of a crowd, where the 
lives of many other persons might have been sacrificed along with 
his own.” 

‘‘ But it could scarcely have been a murder!” cried the minister. 
” There is not a tittle of evidence that any one in the crowd threw 
u cartridge or bomb in that neighborhood. Besides, the person who 
did it would himself have run considerable risk.” 

‘‘True, Mr. Secretary,” replied Mr. Sontag, ‘‘I have put that 
aside as impossible. Moreover, the statement of the lad Lightbones 
is clearly against it, as well as the other circumstances. The man 
seems to have blown up spontaneously from within. Now, no one 
ever heard of gases being generated in the human system of siififi- 
cient force to produce this explosion. The man must have been 
carrying the explosive on hts person— probably in his coat or trou- 
sers pocket.” 

‘‘ Precisely. Then he knew it was there. You can’t escape from 
tliat conclusion. Well, then, he was either carrying it innocently or 
with some criminal intention. He was going to try some experiment 
or commit some crime — in which 1 include suicide. If his intentions 
were innocent, then it is a case of involuntary suicide. He has pun- 
ished himself for his carelessness and a breach of the law. If with 


18 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


criminal intention, th^n one of two hypotheses— the stuff went off 
prematurely, and again he was punished for a breach of the law; or 
it was sent off of set purpose, in ?\iiich case it is a suicide. Quod 
erat demonstrandum^ Mr. Scfhtag,” said the Home Secretary, with a 
triumphant smile. 

The detective gave his lips a tight squeeze for a moment, as if 
they were a sponge with which he was going to wipe away the min- 
ister’s sophisms as tidily as possible, and said, 

“ Pardon me. Sir Walter Grandison, there is another hypothesis, 
which you nave rejected, but to which you will forgive me foi re- 
calling^your attention?” 

” What?” 

‘‘The man may have had the explosive on his person without 
knowing it. You, Sir Walter, have assumed that that was impossi- 
ble.” 

" Good gracious, Sontag!” put in the chief commissioner, ” that 
is altogether beyond the bounds of probability!” 

” 1 don’t know, Sir Henry. It has occurred to me— may this not 
have been an ingenious and infernal plot to put out of the way some 
man who was obnoxious to powerlul and wealthy persons, in such a 
manner as to destroy his identity, and to divert attention from the 
real criminals by the singularity and daring of the means em- 
ployed?” 

” Oh! Then you come back again to Fenianism?” 

‘‘ No. 1 am agreed with you in rejecting the idea that there w'as 
any political motive in this crime.” 

“ Then what other motive can you possibly conceive of for such 
an infernal plot?” inquired the minister. 

” Well, you know, sir, that we modern detectives are very cau- 
tious about allowing ourselves to be drawn awaj’’ from the main ob- 
ject — that of discovering the facts— by theories as to motive. Still 
it is sometimes useful to fry and evolve some theory. 1 should reply 
to your question thus: Perhaps some very rich or eminent person, 
or family, had a paramount reason for wishing to get rid of this 
man, and a plot directed by the most clever and diabolical ingenuity 
we have ever had to deal with w\as formed to destroy him, in such 
a way, so suddenly and completely, and under such conditions, that 
it w’ould be difficult, if not impossible, to establish his identity, and 
that the police should be led to adopt the theory that it was a polit- 
ical crime or an act of political vengeance.” 

“Pooh! Mr. Sontag,” said the chief commissioner, looking at 
Mr. Sontag with some disappointment expressed in his face, ” we 
are not living in the thirteenth century in A^enice or Rome, or in the 
days of Louis the h'ourteenth, or even of Frederick the Great.” 

” 1 have read history,” said Mr. Sontag, ” and the result of my 
reading is to convince me that human nature is always the same, and 
that the same sort of crimes can be and will be committed in mod- 
orn society as in those of ancient Rome or the Aliddle Ages. Every 
development of intellectualism has been followed by fresh develop- 
ments of crime. AVhen the human mind is quickened into move- 
ment, that movement will not confine itself to one direction, the 

f ood and the healthy one. The movement pervades the entire social 
eing, and arouses the evil faculties as well as the good to excep- 


A WEEK OF PASSION 


19 


lional activity. In our day the iniprovemente in the organization of 
society for self-protection and defense impose upon the criminal a 
greater caution and ingenuity in regard to the methods employed, 
and science has made it necessary to use more intelligence and ad- 
dress; but we must not forget that, if science assists us in detection, 
it also puts into the hands of the criminal weapons more powerful, 
more sure, more secret, and difficult of discover 3 ^ and far more for- 
midable, than those which were employed in the times of which 
you speak,” 

Mr. Sontag had grown quite eloquent. He had drawn himself 
up. He no longer looked like the subordinate, awkwardly sitting by 
to be instructed by his superiors; he had assumed rather the tone 
and manner of a pedagogue lecturing his pupils. I’he Home Secre- 
tary was moie struck by this alteration in Mr. Sontag’s manner 
than the chief commissioner, who knew his man. Foi sontag was a 
type of the modern detective, instructed, reflective, philosophic. 
An Englishman by birth, he was, as his name implied, a German 
by descent on his father s side, and he united much of the imagina- 
tive temperament of the German with the practical qualities of the 
Englishman. 


The two superiors remaining silent for a tew moments with as- 
tonishment at Mr. Sontag’s sudden evolution, he ventured to go on; 

” 1 have told you before. Sir Henry, that 1 can only account for 
one or two remarkable crimes which have happened of late years, 
and which w’^e have attempted in vain to elucidate, by supposing 
that they were committed at the instance of some wealthy and un- 
scrupulous person or persons, whose position and character were 
menaced, and to whom a large expenditure of money, in order to 
assure absolute secrecy and immunity from punishment, was a mat- 
ter of no consequence. You remember the case of that j^oung 
French lady who was found dead in her room in tier lodgings in 
Moulton Street? She was about to become a mother. Ton know 
we had reason to believe that she had been met and seduced in Paris 
by one of our most wealthy and respectable London bankers, a 
youngish man, M.P., in good society, and who had lately married 
into an aristocratic family in England. The girl herself was of a 
noble French family, but in reduced circumstances. They knew 
nothing whatever about the liaison, and when she came to England 
they supposed she was in Normandy. It was certain the intimacy 
had continued off and on for two years, and yet ail the researches 
of the Paris police could not discover where and how they had 
met. Only one person could be found who knew anything about it 
— a woman friend, to whom she had confided her condition, and to 
whom she had written one letter from London. The poor lady, 
having heard of his marriage, liad come here resolved to make him 
settle a handsome fortune on her and her child, or else to denounce 
him. That she had seen him once in London we knew from that 
single letter In it she referred to his name only by initials. Her 
friend had never seen him, did not know his name. In her letter 
she said she had asked him to settle on her half a million of francs, 
which proved that she believed him to be a man of princely wealth. 
She was a beautiful woman, and everything about her — her dress, 
toilet, baggage, jewels— all showed that, whoever he was, the man 


20 


A AVEEK OF PAS^IOi^. 


iiad enteitaiued her in a handsome manner. AVell, no evidence 
whatever could be obtained of that interview,. No one had ever 
seen the man with her in Loudon— no one in Paris. In London, as 
her letter stated, and as we kuew from bei landlady, she made the 
acquaintance of a Frenchwoman, who was no doubt put on her 
track. This woman pretended to be able and anxious to help her. 
One day she was ill. The Frenchwoman said she would send her a 
French doctor. She went away, and w^as never seen again. We 
could rind no trace of her. But the so-called doctor came in the 
evening at rdne o’clock. He remained in the lady’s room about half 
an hour. Me was a short slight man, of delicate features, and wear- 
ing a small dark mustache and imperial, and dressed in a light gray 
ulker. When he left he stated that he had given her a sleeping mixt- 
ure, and that she was not to oe disturbed. The landlady, however, 
went into the room before goina to bed and found her lodger motion- 
less— dead — an empty bottle, marked ‘Laudanum,’ by her side. 

This was a blind. The English doctor who was called in was 

of Brook Street, a vei}’’ clever fellow. He noticed a peculiar odor 
about the face, and some appearance of the skin, w^hich was very 
fine and delicate, as if a strong irritant had been applied to the 
face. There were traces of the same odor on her night-dress and the 
pillow,'as if the essence had been used in considerable quantity, and 
possibly in the course of a struggle had been scattered about. The 
stomach, on examination, contained no traces whatever of poison.” 

” How, then, was it done?” said the minister. 

” Dr, said he had no doubt it was done by applying to her 

lace a piece of linen saturated with a mixture of chloroform and 
prussic acid — in fact, the same mixture which killed the celebrated 
Dr. Toynbee while he w'as experimenting on its efitects on the ear. 

Lr. ’s opinion was that it was applied like a mask, the linen 

being placed under oil silk, which he said would increase the irritant 
power of the chloroform, and accounted for the reddened appear- 
ance of the Siiin. All her letters and papers had disappeared^ but 
there was no robbery of valuables. Now, Sir Henry, have you ever 
been satisfied with the view of the coroner’s jury that this last vis- 
itor w^as trie lover w’^ho had seduced her, and who murdered her*'' 
■\\ e never found the man in the gray ulster, and 1 will tell you wiry. 
I am persuaded we should have looked for a wmman. Moreover, 1 
always had a suspicion that, earnest as you and 1 were to penetrate 
this mystery, we never had a chance. Our subordinates never 
worked at it with any enerary. There was something behind that. 
The man who was concerned could aflord to pay handsomely to 
suppress the pursuit— and did. Nay, 1 will say more. There Vas 
some solicitor in London, who knew all about it, and who managed 
the business for the millionaire. But you see there was no evidence 
whatever to fix him; and when we made a delicate approach to him 
he was very indignant, and said he knew nothing whatever about tne 
w^omau. We had nothing beyond those initials in the letter, and the 
poor lady's description of his personal appearance, which is a strik- 
ing one, and so there we had to leave it— a mystery to be cleared up 
ai the day of judgment, if there ever is one.” 

‘‘Never m'ind about the day of judgment, Mr. Sontag. Your 
Straussism is your own private affair, and is better omitted from 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


21 


your official appreciations. 1 am afraid that all you say and suspect 
about that case is only too near the mark,” said the cliiet commis- 
sioner. ” 1 have alwaj^s been dissatisfied about it. The truth is 
that, without absolute proof, we can not risk charges against, people 
of high position and great wealth. As you say, they have an im- 
mense power of purchasing or securing the suppression of evidence. ” 

” Well, Sir Henry, why may not this case be one of the kind 1 
have referred to? It is not an ordinary case. Though, on the face 
of it, it looks so vulgar and stupid, and outrageous, it is altogether 
too mysterious to be accounted for by any commonplace theories. 
Take my word for it, the real criminals— for 1 am sure it vras no 
suicide— are either political conspirators, and that 1 don’t believe, 
for, if 1 am not mistaken, the man was an Englishman, and neither 
Fenian, ISihilist, nor Socialist— or they are people who are of such 
position and wealth that, when these were menaced, they would 
hardly hesitate to commit any crime or go to any expense to save 
themselves from discovery.” 

” There is something behind all this, Sontag,” said the chief 
commissioner, looking at his subordinate sharply. “You have 
some information?” 

Mr. Sontag smiled without parting his lips. 

“ Oui with it, man! What is it you have found out? Several of 
these letters point to a political motive.” 

“ Precisely, Sir Henry,” said Mr. Sontag. “ And having exam- 
ined them closely, 1 am satisfied with regard to those, that, though 
they are in different handwu’itings, they all came from the same 
source. They are simply red herrings trailed across our path. The 
same man composed them all ; he is a lawyer. The turns of expres- 
sion are similar in each, in spite of his effort to vary them, which 
prcwes that he is a legal practitioner accustomed to one formal man- 
ner of expression, and not a man of high literary culture or practice 
in style. The style is that of a solicitor, and a clever one. But you 
are right, 1 have some information, and I will tell you why 1 am 
certain that this is not a political outrage.” 

” Come now,” said the minister, settling himself down in his 
chair and looking at Mr. Sontag with interest, “this looks more 
like business. Go on, please.” 

“ Well, sir, the boy Lightbones is a sharp boy, a peer’s servant, 
and none are quicker than gentlemen’s servants to detect a real gen- 
tleman from a false when they see one. He tells me that, from the 
view he had of the man, he is certain he w^as a ‘ gentleman.’ ” 

“ Why he only saw him tor two or three seconds, did he?” said 
the Home Secretary. 

“And for a sharp-eyed boy, Mr. Minister, that 1 hold was 
enough. Take my own case. 1 have a trained eye, not so quick 
as Houdin’s, but pretty quick for all that. Give me a full, fair 
glimpse of a man, dressed on a summer day, standing in broad day 
light on a pavement, and 1 think 1 could rely pretty well on the cor- 
n ctness of my appreciation of the general character of the objective 
X^ersonality in question.” 

31r. Sontag’s German side was turning outward. 

“ But, surely,” said the Home Secretary, who evinced more in- 
terest in the philosophic appreciations of Mr. Sontag than he had 


22 


A ^VEEK OF PASSIOX. 


in the discussion of the pros and oonsoi actual facts, “ you couldn’t 
tell whether your ‘ objective personality,’ as you term it, was a 
banker or a doctor?” 

” No, Mr. Secretary, I don’t think 1 could go into those refine- 
ments in so short a time, though, with a few minutes’ observation, 
] could guess correctly, in nine cases out of ten, even so closely as 
that. But 1 could tell you. Sir Walter, with some confidence, 
whether he was an aristocrat oi a tradesman or a workman. 1 could 
tell you whether he was a gentleman, by which 1 mean belonging to 
the cultivated classes and the professions, or a shopman or a pub- 
lican or a swell-mobsman; 1 might even, 1 think, tell you whether 
he was a military man or a civilian, an actor or a jockey, a gentle- 
man out at elbows or a servant out of place, but 1 could not, with- 
out closer study, go into the finer shades of character. There is 
really nothing extraordinary about this. The rapidity of obseiwa- 
tion is the artist’s faculty. He has a quick glance, which takes in 
all the outlines, all the’ details of form and color; and the real artist 
has, besides that, an intuitive sense of the character of the object he 
looks at. Every good detective is an artist with the poetry sup- 
pressed — ” 

“1 should tell you, Sir Walter,” said the chief commissioner, 
who seemed pleased at the way in which his subordinate was com- 
ing out, ” that Mr. Sontag’s art is not suppressed. He has exhibit- 
ed some very pretty pictures at tae Water-color Society’s Exhibi- 
tion.” 

Mr, Sontag’s face took on a sort of faint water-color blush at his 
chief’s compliment, and he went on: 

“ When natural quickness of observation is trained, then you get, 
as in Houdin’s case, almost miraculous results. You remember he 
could pass a shop-window at a walk and afterward catalogue and 
describe every object in it. However, 1 only wished to explain that 
it is quite possible young Lightbones is correct in his appreciation of 
the person he saw. lhad him for an hour in a window in Parliament 
Street and tested him by making him glance rapidly at passers-by, 
while 1 said, ‘ One, two, three,’ and he rarely made a mistake in disiin- 
guishiug a ‘ gentleman ’ from persons well dressed, but obviously be- 
longing to the classes that work and trade. His power of seeing and 
appreciating is exceptionaliy rapid, and it strikes me he would make 
a good detective, for he is sharp as needles. He even thinks now 
that he could recognize the man’s face it he saw a photograph. I 
questioned him closely. The figure evidently made a vivid impres- 
sion, which came back after the fright was over. 1 took a note of 
his recollections— such as they are. ‘ Large, square face, rather 
brown-black bushy eyebrows— nose round ’ —he saw the front face, 
and a large, prominent nose would give that impression at a hasty 
glance— ‘ mouth quite straight--it seemed like a slit in a money- 
box ’—that is a very striking and important detail—* big, square 
chin— whiskers, dark hair, no beard or mustache.’ You observe 
the lad has a pretty fair picture of the man in his memory. Now 
we have minute descriptions of all the Fenian suspects on both sides 
of the Atlantic, but none resemble this. Again, the boy’s impres- 
sion of the man’s age is that it was over fifty. His hand 
confirms it. The surgeons say it is not the hand of a workman. 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


23 


and you can see it is not. Thou.oh it is muscular, it is a gentle- 
man’s hand. * The nails are well kept, it is white and sott", not a 
hand accustomed to tools, though it might have managed a cricket 
bat or a pair ot oars svith strength and ""address. The Fenians may 
have among them persons who have been clerks or professional men 
of a low order, but they certainly have no gentlemen. 1 abandon 
the Irish theory altogether. Well, then, it is said a chemist or min 
ing-eugiueer may have been taking home some nitro-glycerine to 
experiment upon. But you see we have not had a single person of 
that description reported to us as missing. Here is the list. A bar- 
rister — they are always disappearing; it is a precarious profession 
for any but a solicitor’s son. Two solicitors— ditto— they, however, 
generally take something with therh. A clergyman— perhaps gone 
over to Rome. A ‘ gentleman,’ that is, a person of no occupation — 
we are inquiring about him — and a financial agent — 1 wonder there 
is only one this week — a stock-broker. Lastly,""there is a gentleman 
of some position -and importance, the agent or steward of the Earl 
of Selby, who came up from Yorkshire on the 20th, and was to 
have met the earl in his house in Portman Square at five o’clock on 
Thursday afternoon and never turned up. This gentleman’s name 
was Barton.” 

“Lord Selby’s steward!” cried the Home Secretary. “Why, 
Lord Selby is a relative, and was the guardian of Lord Tilbury. 
What an odd coincidence!” 

” The coincidence would be even more odd were the very man 
who was blown up to turn out to be this same Mr, Barton. In my 
opinion, we should adopt the theory, odd as it may seem, that the 
victim is this Mr. Barton, and devote our best attention to elucidat- 
ing his fate.” 

The minister and the chief commissioner looked earnestly at Mr. 
Sontag. 

“ What can be running in your head?” said the commissioner. 

‘‘ In the first place, sir, Mr. Barton’s little finger had a peculiarity 
which answers to that of the hand on the mantel-piece. The peculi- 
arity was congenital. The surgeons declare that the crook ot the 
joint in this hand is congenital. In the second place, the description 
given of Mr. Barton answers to the description given by Lightbones. 
Unhappily, that gentleman always objected to sit for his photo- 
graph, so that we can not use that means of identification. The 
only portrait of him is a painting twenty years old. In the third 
place, his son, who was with me last evening, is prepared to swear 
that that is his father’s hand.” 

Both the high officials started. 

” Why the" didn’t you tell us all this before,” said the Home 

Secretary, peevishly, “ instead of wasting our time in generalities?” 

‘ Because, Mr. Secretary, the evidence is, unfortunately, far 
from conclusive, and a charge has been lodged against Mr. Barton 
by the Earl of Selby’s own solicitors of having run away with 
a quantity of bonds.” 

“ Hum! It seems to be a pretty kettle of fish.” 

” Fourthly, Sir Walter and Mr. Commissioner, 1 have an extraor- 
dinary piece of evidence— the minutest piece of evidence that ever 
was produced in a court of justice. Ten minutes before the catas- 


24 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


troplie Mr. Barton was in the shop of Lund, the watch-maker, in 
liei^ent Street. He called for a watch he had left to be cleaned and 
put in order. 1 went there this morning. 'Well, 1 walked out of 
Lund’s shop, and leisurely up Regent Street to jvard the Circus, 
which they told me was the direction he had taken in leaving the 
shop, with my watch in my hand. It took me exactly nine min- 
utes and fifty two seconds to reach the spot where the catastrophe of 
Thursday occurred.” 

” Singular!” said the home secretary, with an air of raillery, and 
giving his left eyelid, wmich was nearest the chief commissioner, a 
sort of twitch, which might, in a less majestic person, have been 
taken for a wink. “ You don’t mean to say, Mr. Sontag, that you 
believe that a man wiio was ajboiit to blow himself up in Regent 
Circus w'ould call for his watch, to take it with him into the other 
world, do you?” 

‘‘ jNlr. Secretary, with submission, I don’t think the individual in 
question blew himself up at all.” 

‘‘ Well, but really, Mr. Sontag, who could have blown him up?” 

“ That is the question,” said Mr. Sontag, shutting his lips up 
tight, and squeezing his eyes almost to pin-points. 

The two great officials now experienced a reaction against the 
favorable opinion they had formed of the chief detective’s astute- 
ness. They began to feel that the German and philosophic side of 
his nature was getting the better of his practical sense. Mr. Sontag 
realized this change in their feelings. 

“ 1 beg pardon, gentlemen,” he'said, “ 1 will produce this minute 
piece of evidence which has had so strong an influence on my 
mind.” 

He took out porte-monnaie, opened it cautiously, extracted from 
it a small piece of folded white paper, extracted again from that a 
second piece of folded paper, looKing like a baby’s powder. Hold- 
ing it carefullj’’ aside, so as not to breathe upon it, he rose and ap- 
proached the Home Secretary. The chief commissioner also rose, 
and came nearer. The moment was evidently, in Mr. Sontag’s 
opinion, a solemn one. 

“ Pardon me, Mr. Secretary — Mr. Commissioner — will you kindly 
hold your breath while 1 open this paper?’' 

He pushed back the edge of the paper with his forefingers very 
gingerly. He had the air of a prestidigitator who is about to per- 
form a miraculous trick, w hich he knows will succeed and confound 
all skepticism. 

In the middle of the paper was a speck about the size of a lady’s 
patch, but instead of being black it was white. 

Taking out of his pocket a magnifying-glass, the detective pre- 
sented it to the home secretary, and turning away his face so as not 
to breathe on the paper, but keeping one eye on the precious morsel 
all the while, he said, 

“ Do you see, Sir 'Walter?” 

The minister, wlio had grown red in the face, turned his nose 
away, and drew a deep breatn, as he Handed the glass to the chief 
commissioner. 

“ 1 see,” he said, ” a small piece of w^hite enamel, and on it three 
very small letters, which 1 make out to be ham.” 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 


On 


Sir Henry, -who had examined the tliinr^, nodded. 

“ Precisely,” said the detective, as he cautiously refolded the pa- 
per. ‘‘ And what do you make of that?” 

” There is no use in putting conundrums to us,” said the Home 
Secretary, testily. ‘‘Be good enough to tell us, Mr. Sontag, what 
you make of it.” 

“ M'ell, Mr. Minister, and Sir Henry,” said the detective, grave- 
ly, ‘‘ the watch which Mr. Barton usually carried, and which he had 
on him that day, for he took it out of his pocket and bad it set by 
Lund’s chronometer, was a beautiful chronometer watch, with a 
white face, and the maker was Frodsham, of the Strand.” 

Tlie two officials started. 

” The other watch, which he had left to be overhauled, was a 
Swiss watch, a valuable one, and he said he meant to give it to his 
son. l^ow if 1 can prove that this minute piece of white enamel, 
bearing the last three letters of the name of Fiodsham— letters pre- 
cisely like those of a veritable Frodsham, which 1 have this morn- 
ing obtained from the maker ” — he took out of his pocket a watch, 
and touching the spring of the case, disclosea a white watch-face, 
bearing the maker's name in letters incontestably similar to those on 
the piece of enamel — ” it, 1 say, 1 can prove that this piece of 
enamel came from the body of the man who was killed in the Cir- 
cus, will that have any influence on your minds?” 

‘‘ Where did you get that fragment?” cried the chief commis- 
sioner, astounded. 

” You remember. Sir Henry, that a Yorkshire bailiff named Hil- 
ton was close to the scene of the catastrophe at the time, and was 
sprinkled with the remains of the deceased? Yesterday 1 submitted 
the clothes to a careful examination with a powerful glass. Hilton 
was wearing a homespun suit. At the told of the collar 1 found a 
clot of blood, and held, partly by the clot and partly by the wool, 1 
discovered a minute fragment of metal or glass, which nearly es- 
caped me. 1 was curious. 1 took it and placed it in a wine-glass, 
and washed it. You have seen what it is. 1 instantly guessed it 
was part of a watch-face, and 1 examined the names of all the 
watch-makers in the directory for any which gave the combination 
of letters existing on the fragment. JMy inquiries lead me to suspect, 
at least, that this may be a portion of Mr. Barton’s watch, and if it 
could only be proved that it was, 1 should require no further proof 
of the identity of Mr. Barton with the subject of our problem. His 
son was with me last night. He is a clever and reticent young man, 
but after learning all that 1 have just told you, he stated that he was 
satisfied that his father was the person who had perished in the Cir- 
cus, and that he should act accordingly. My belief is that he en- 
tertains similar suspicions to my own, for some reasons known only 
to- himself, and which 1 could not induce him to disclose. But 1 
shall know them,” added Mr. Sontag, shutting his lips with a quick 
movement, and nodding his head. 

“ But,” said the chief commissioner, “ Lord Selby and Lord Sel- 
by’s solicitors have been moving heaven and earth to discover Mr. 
Barton’s whereabouts— they say he has run away with a lot of im- 
portant and valuable papers. 1 really can not understand, Mr. Son- 
tag, what direction 3'our suspicions are pointing in.” 


26 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


Mr. Sontag still kept his moutli tightly shut, and put on the air of 
a man who would say. “ Oh, well! Think what you like--! know 
what I am about;” but it was aggravating (hat he did not impart 
any further grounds for his convictions. 

‘‘ Whew!” ejaculated the Home Secreary, throwing himself back 
in his chair and addressing the ceiling. ‘‘ Let me see. The young 
Earl of Tilbury’s mother is a Selby. The old Earl of Selby, her fa- 
ther, and father of the present Earl of Selby, was very fond of her, 
and he also took a fancy to his grandson. Lord Tilbury. You know 
he did not live in England latterly; he lived on the Continent and 
never saw his son, the present earl, for twenty years before his death. 
There had been a deadly quarrel between (hem about the late 
Countess of Selby. His rental was over thirty thousand a year. He 
was close-fisted, and saved, and purchased Linton, which he left, 1 
believe, to Lady Tilbury for lile, with remainder to her son, and a 
lot of money besides. She has always been on good terms with her 
brother Selby, who succeeded to the family estates. The late Earl 
of Tilbury left a colossal fortune, and constituted the present Earl 
of Selby and Fairway, the banker, executors and guardians of 
young Tilbury. Fairv/ay died about eight years ago. Tilbury came 
of ag'e last February— you remember all the fuss about it— nearly 
all the English nobility took part in the rejoicings, which were held 
in a dozen counties. The Earl of Selby is absolutely above suspicion 
of any kind, one of the wealthiest and most distinguished men in the 
peerage. If your suspicions, Mr. Sontag, point at him, 1 must tell 
you frankly they are simpl}’’ absurd. You are only wasting time. 
These coincidences you mention are curious, certainly, but you see 
yourself you have nothing conclusive. You must look somewhere 
else, Mr. Sontag.” 

The detective only pursed up his eyes more tightly and remained 
silent. The chief commissioner was thoughtful and said nothing, 
but the subordinate read dissatisfaction in the face of his chief, and 
seeing that it was useless to pursue the. subject any further at that 
moment, he took up his hat to go. 

” Good-day, Mr. Sontag,” said the Home Secretary, in a (one half 
ironic, half earnest. ” Do not allow your Teutonic love of poetry 
and mystery to set the better of your sound English common-sense. 
There is no Vehmgericht in England, and although royal princes 
and noblemen may be freemasons, no English peer -will become the 
associate of conspirators and assassins.” 

Mr. Sontag bowed, and went away. 

” He is a clever fellow,” said the chief commissioner, when his 
subordinate had disappeared, ‘‘ but I notice thai sometimes he has 
a tendency to proceed rather by intuition than by induction.” 

‘‘ Ha!” replied the Home Secretary, with a smile. ” If you were 
married. Sir Henry, you would known how frequently people who 
do that make wonderfully sharp hits.” 

Sir Henry laughed and took his leave. 


A WEEK OF PASSION’. 


4 i 


CHAPTER 111. 

IS HE SINCERE? 

On the morning of Monday, the 30th of June, at about eleven 
o’clock, a young man, carefully dressed in deep mourning, and 
who, though he did not exhibit that subtle distinction and quiet as- 
surance of carriage which is given by a consciousness of aristocratic 
birth and social eminence, yet had the appearance and manner of 
one who has been accustomed to mix in the best society, presented 
himself at the door of the great family mansion of the Tilburys, in 
Grosvenor Place, one of the largest and most imposing, if not the 
least ugly, of the structures which, some twenty years since, should- 
ered out of that aristocratic quarter the dingy brick shops and 
dwellings erected nearly a century before by the original lessees of 
the Duke of Westminster. 

The gray-headed servant, who, to answer the modest appeal of 
the bell, had emerged from his leather-hooded seat in the hall, where 
he had been perusing at bis ease the “Morning Post,” and who 
bore on his wrinkled face the traces of sleeplessness and anxiety, 
started when he saw the young gentleman who was standing under 
'the portico. 

“ Is her ladyship at home, Simpson?” said the visitor. 

“ AVhat, is it you. Master Barton? How you have changed (o be 
sure! \ou have grown a mustaclie. Will you please to come in a 
moment? though you can’t see her ladyship.” 

The young gentleman, who appeared to have great self -possession, 
said nothing until the old man had shut the door and turned toward 
him. He glanced rapidly round the great hall, with its marble floor, 
its scagliola pillars and panels, its lofty ceiling d la Renaissance, vi- 
olently gilded and painted by Italian artists, its furniture of rich 
mahogany, and the heavy Moorish curtains which acted as j^oriUres 
between the outer and inner hall, and said, in a low voice, 

“ Is there any one within hearing?” 

“No, Mr. Barton,” replied the man. “The two footmen are 
down-stairs having something to eat. You know everything is up- 
set here. We are kept up ail night— hardly getting any sleep— doc- 
tors coming and going— people calling to inquire — look at that bas- 
ket of cards— there’s bushels of ’em in the library— lawyers prowl- 
ing about, and what not. 1 tell you, Master George, 1 don’t know 
whether I'm standing on my head or my feet. I’ve had no sleep 
for four nights, since they brought my lord home senseless. And 
there he is now, lying just as he came in a Thursday night, and we 
every minute expecting to hear that it’s all over with him, poor fel- 
low! Oh, Master George! Master George! 1 don’t know what I’m 
doing or saying, and can hardly hold myself up!” And the old man 
sunk down in his great chair, and covered his eyes tor a moment 
with his skinny hand. 

“ It is dreadful!” said the young gentleman, in a short, hard tone, 
the lines of his face setting like those of a wooden image. His com- 


A WEEK OE PASSIOET. 


28 

plexion was brown and dark, his face one of great and striking 
power, not handsome, but agreeable; a straight, prominent nose, 
with fiuely-chiseled nostrils, brown eyes of extraordinary depth and 
luminosity, the luminosity which gives such magnetic power to a 
dark eye; hair almost black, coming down in a mass over a broad 
forehead, low but full, in which the organs of perception were 
strongly but finely marked; and his well-shaped eyebrows projected 
over the eyes, adding to their singular beauty and power. Under a 
dark mustache, cut straight across the lips, a mouth straight, thiu- 
iipped, resolute, and below a deep square chin, closely shaven. He 
was not tall, but his broad shoulders, erect and robust body, and the 
firmness with which he held himself on his feet, as well as the mus- 
cular appearance of the right hand, wfiiich was ungloved, and 
browned by the sun and air, testified to considerable strength. Had 
any one looked closely at the hand, he would have seen that its back 
was covered with short, downy hairs, and that the nail-joint of the 
little finger being slightly, almost imperceptibly, bent inward, could 
not be straightened wuth the rest of the fingers. 

He remained silent for a minute, wdiile old Simpson kept his eyes 
covered witn his hand. When he removed it they looked red and 
fatigued. 

“ Simpson,” said the young man, ” 1 want to see the countess — 
in fact, 1 must see her.” 

‘‘ You, Mr. Georgel” cried Simpson, in an accent of surprise. 
‘‘ Wliy you know that you can’t see her! I have had to shut the 
door in the face of her dearest friends, AVhy, there’s been tele- 
grams here from royalty, and 1 don’t believe she’s even seen ’em — 
the earl ausw'ers them. She even refused to see Mr. Pollard — he’s 
her man of business, you know— and he’s been heie three times, and 
said he must see her — just as you say— but it ain’t no use; she won’t 
leave the earl’s room. I don’t know that Lord Selby has spoken to 
her yet.” 

‘‘Has the earl been here?” 

‘‘ Been here? He’s here almost all the. time. He sees ’most every- 
body. He’s here now. Will you see him? Perhaps that’s what 
you want?” 

‘‘ IMo,” replied the young man, with an emphasis and a deepness 
of tone wdiich would have struck a more intelligent observer than 
the hall- porter as significant of some powerful emotion. 

He paused a moment, looking irresolutely at Simpson. Then he 
seemed to take a sudden decision. 

‘‘ Simpson,” he said, ‘‘ you knew ray father was lost?” 

‘‘ Lord bless my roul! Of course 1 heard it, Master George. Why 
— my head is so upset that it never struck me when I saw yon— 
whv, the earl is in a terrible way about it, so his people say.' Ay I 
your father! There’s been detectives with his lordship, one of his 
gentlemen told me. And they do say — I beg pardon, ]\lr. George: 
1 w^as forgetting myself: you and your father was always respected 
in our circle, you know.” 

The young man’s eyes glowed so at the moment when the fatal 
gossip was coming out that Simpson stopped, alarmed. 

‘‘ Well, go on, Simpson,” he said, in a dry, hard voice. ‘‘ What 
do they say?” 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


29 

“ They say he has gone oft with papers worth hundreds of thou- 
sands of pounds.” 

” It’s a lie!” said the young man. 

Then suddenly checking himselt and recovering his dignity, he 
made a tremendous effort to subdue the violent flame in his eyes and 
the terrible contraction his features had undergone as he uttered 
the denial. 

” Simpson,” said George Barton, solemnly, and with a forced 
gentleness of tone and manner, ” my father is dead.” 

By a gesture he showed the servant his bat, which bore a broad 
mourning-band. 

” Dead!” exclaimed the old man. ‘‘ Mr. Barton dead! It can’t 
be, Mr, George. Wliy only an hour ago, as the Earl of Selby were 
talking there, at the foot of the staircase, with Sir Alfred .Marks, Sir 
Alfred says, ‘ Heard anything of your steward yet, my lord?’ And 
the earl says, ‘ Ko, d— n nim. 1 expect he’s in Spain by this time.’ ” 

” H’m,” said George Barton, grimly, halt to himself, ” Loi’d 
Selby also has his chateaux en Espagne ! He does not know that 
my father is dead, eh?” 

” Who is that talking so freely about Lord Selby?” said a sharp, 
clear-toned voice, as the thick curtains were thrust aside by a nerv- 
ous hand, while a long, thin, and strangely powerful face was pushed 
forward, and two keen gray eyes peered into the hall; one of tliose 
faces which carry the marks of athousauasiorms, a thousand varied 
experiences— of passions dead, of passions still aglow, of intellect 
worn and weary, of intellect still quick and active, of faded hopes 
and living ambitions, of desires extinct, of aesires unsatiated— with 
coolness, reserve, audacity, hauteur, shrewdness, force, all shown 
together: in the gray eyes, with their corners drawn down by a net- 
work of wrinkles; in the full lips, round whose edges played such a 
variety of expressions; in the long, deep, narrow chin, whose point 
carried a thin gray tuft; in the tall forehead and high arched head, 
sparsely covered with gray hairs carefully barbered; while across 
the forehead there ran delicate horizontal lines, which changed and 
quivered at the emotions of the spirit within. Young Barton did 
not require to study that face. He had known it from his infancy. 
It had a strange charm for him, though he had never been able to 
regard it with confidence or affection, though he could not but ad- 
mire its force and even majesty, and though it was the countenance 
of his most noble and respectable godfather wdiich now appeared so 
suddenly before him. 

The earl, by a quick movement, parted the curtains and look a 
step forw^ard. Like lightning his eye had taken in the figure of 
George Barton, who, thunder-struck, nevertheless by an instinctive 
movement made a bow and drew himself up. 

Everything about this extraordinary peer, his perceptions, his 
thoughts, his judgments, his decisions, seemed to have the quick- 
ness and vivacity of lightning. In an instant his face passed through 
a marvelous variety of^expressions — astonishment, anger, scorn; then 
it assumed a sudden gentleness and urbanity. 

” You here, George Barton?” he said, modulatins: his voice, and 
making it almost paternal and caressing. ‘‘How are you? Have 
you come to give me some good news about your father?” 


k AVEEK OF PASSIOI^r. 


30 

“ I don’t know, my lord, how you will consider it, whether good 
or bad,” replied theyoung man, in a peculiar tone; “but” — he 
suddenly put his hand to his head, as if to retain his anguish, and 
his voice broke—” he — he is dead!” 

” Dead?” cried the earl. ” Are 3 'ou sure of this? How do you 
know?” 

” My lord— the unfortunate person who— was the cause of the ac- 
cident to the Earl of Tilbury— the mysterious person who—” 

” Stay!” interrupted the peer, putting his hand on the arm of the 
young man, ” We will not talk here. Come Avith me into the 
library.” 

In this altitude, half familiarly he drew young Barton between 
the curtains. Suddenly he stopped, released the young man’s arm, 
and put his head back into the hall for an instant, 

” Sim.pson, I am engaged. Let no one disturb us in the library.” 

And he led the w^ay, this time without approaching his visitor. 
Barton, who caught a side glance of his face, could see that it was 
agitated with conflicting emotions, and he nerved himself for a pain- 
ful outbreak. He knew’ that it would be no holiday plaj’- to break 
a lance with one of the most redoubtable social and intellectual 
champions in England, a man who had sat at the Foreign Office, 
and held his own with Gortchakoft, with Bunsen and Oavour and 
Bismarck. 

When they had entered the room, and Barton, coming second, 
had closed tiie door, the earl, who marched a few slow steps in the 
direction of the mantel-piece, with his head down and his hands in 
his pockets, suddenly wheeled round, and fixing the young man, 
with his gray e.yes flashing, said, as if he w’ouid draw an avowal out 
of him by surprise and terror, 

“Now, George Barton, may I ask you what the devil you want 
here?” 

The 5 ’oung man’s eye did not flinch for a moment from the eagle 
glance which was fixed upon him. On the contrary, his dark orbs, 
glowing with a more intense, it apparently more subdued flame than 
lighted up the earl’s, seemed to search the face before him steadily, 
as it he were resolved to penetrate behind the mask and read the 
thoughts within. But that mask was inscrutable. He was, how- 
ever, embarrassed, for he did not reply. 

“ Is your tongue tied?” cried the earl, impatiently. 

“ Forgive me, earl,” said the young man, bowing with dignity, 
“ but you are rather brusque, and it was only last night that 1 ac' 
quired the conviction that my fattier was the victim of the awful 
event in Regent Circus. I am hardly myself to-day.” 

The earl for a moment seemed startled and touched by the young 
man’s statement, and the manner in W’hich he delivered it, but the 
movement was immediately followed by an expression of sarcastic 
incredulity. 

“ George Barton dead, you say, and in so absurd a manner? 1 
can not believe it! What does this mean? Is this a masquerade 
of mourning, and is it possible you are assisting in a comed}’^ of de- 
ception? Your father’s disappearance is one of the most extraordi- 
nary mysteries 1 ever heard of. He w’as to have met me in Portman 
Square on my return from Selby, on business of vital importance to 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


31 

me. He never came. You came to me on Thursday night, and 
told me that cock-and-bull story a,bout his engagement to dine with 
you at ‘ TheEainbow,’ and his failure to put in an appearance. 1 set 
the detectives at work. Not a trace of him has been found. What’ 
can i suppose? 1 have not seen you since. What have jmu been 
doing? You seem to have been keeping very quiet. Now you sud- 
denly turn up— wrapped in conventional gloom— and tell me that 
your father, as steady and unromantic a man as overlived, has been 
destroyed, blown to pieces beyond all possibility of identification, in 
a sensational pyrotechnic flare-up in Regent’s Circus! W'hat does 
this mean, 1 say? Is this to throw me ofi; the right scent? If so, 1 am 
only astounded at your simplicity. If you imagine that I am to be 
houdwinked by such tactics you are hardly worthy of your character 
as my godson, on which you are unfortunately able to pique your- 
self.” 

The young man, though stung by the calculated severity and even 
brutality of this address, mastered his anger by a powerful effort, 
and fixed his attention on the earl’s manner and expression as he de- 
livered it. He was trying to penetrate the motive of this severity. 
Was it sincere or was it assumed? His face flushed deeply, but he 
replied in quiet, though tremulous tones, and with a dignity of man- 
ner that sensibly put the earl in the wrong: 

“ My lord, that was a distinction which was conferred upon me 
at a period when I had no discretion either to accept it or reject it; 
it was one emanating from your own good feeling and appreciation 
of my father, and which I had learned to regard as one of the signal 
honors of my life. 1 should be sorry if anything occurred to 
diminish the ardor with which I have sought to be worthy of it, or 
the pride with which I have cherished it. But I must observe that 
your lordship does a gross injustice to the person wiiom he selected 
for such a distinction when he imagines him capable, even to save 
a dearly-loved father from the consequences of his acts, of being 
knowingly a party to an attempt to deceive or defraud you.” 

The young man’s voice, trembling at first under the violence of 
the emotions he was bravely struggling to suppress, grew firmer as 
he went on, and his last words were accompanied by a look and 
attitude that made a profound impression on the peer, whose nature 
w^as chivalric, if his passion or his egotism often got the better of it. 

His manner softened as he replied, in gentler tones, 

” AVell, George, i did not intend to have spoken so harshly; but 
1 am really utterly bewildered and upset by this business. I may 
be wrong— I will admit it for the moment, and recall my words. ' 
Let it pass. Sit down and tell me what is this horrible information 
you have brought me?” 

“ My lord, iTell you frankly, I did not come here to see you.” 

‘ Eh? You didn’t come here to see me? Who the deuce did you 
come to see, then?” cried the peer, set off again by this inopportune 
avowal. 

George Barton bit his lip, for the words were not out of his mouth 
before he saw that he had made a serious tactical mistake. He 
avoided a confession. 

“ Your lordship forgets,” hesaid, “ that, thanks to your kindness 
and the open and generous spirit of Lord Tilbury, I "was on a foot- 


32 


A AVEEK OF PASSION. 


ing of the closest intimacy with him. 1 did not think 1 was pre- 
sumimr too much in calling to aSk after his condition, unacr the 
dreadful circumstances which have happened.” 

“H’m! What! The morning after you have satisfied yourself 
that your father was dead? Eh?" Is your mother aware of this?” 

'“No,” said George Barton, hesitating and confused. ”1 have 
not deemed it right as yet to communicate what 1 have learned to 
her, though 1 know she is in a terrible state of anxiety.” 

“She has both written and telegraphed to me,” said the earl; 
“ and 1 replied as kindly and soothingly as 1 could.” 

“ 1 thank you, my lord,” said Barton, with warmth. “ That is 
a kindness worthy of you! 1 was going to say I wish the proofs to 
be much more complete befoi’e 1 teU her the dreadful truth.” 

The earl shook his head with a solemn and dissatisfied air, and 
eyed the young man from under his halt-closed eyelids more keenly 
and curiously than ever. Luckily for George Barton the peer's 
vivacity of thought led him at the moment to change the subject. 

“ By the way, will you tell me, Barton,” he said, “what you 
were saying about me to one of the hall servants? You seemed to 
be casting French pearls before old Simpson, and if 1 heard aright 
— 1 could not help it; it was all 1 did hear, 1 assure you — you were 
connecting my name in a sarcastic manner with Spain — a country 1 
detest.” 

“Forgive me, my lord; it was an indiscretion. 1 was really 
thinking aloud. Simpson had overheard j'on say something not 
very complimentary about my father to Sir Alfred Marks ’’- the 
earl delivered sotto wee an uncomplimentary expletive lo Simpson’s 
address — “ in which 1 consider your lordship is mistaken. It was 
unfortunate you should have overheard it.” 

“ Well, well,” said the peer, who had been rapidly reflecting 
while the young man spoke, and had suddenly decided to adopt 
gentler tactics than he had hitherto employed, for he was inwardly 
painfully intrigue by the visit and the visitor’s manner. “ You are 
young, and no doubt this affair has upset you. We will say no 
more aboiii that, but 1 will give vou a bit of advice, as your god- 
father and an old man of the world, and it is this — never open your 
mind on any subject whatever to a menial. Never waste a thought 
by sending it down to the scullery with the broken meat, where it 
will be thrown to the dogs. Never make a confidant of a man 
below your own station in intelligence. Never give a servant a 
chance of picking your brains or guessing your scTcrets, and never 
nllow a servant to tell you the secrets of others. For every unit you 
may chance to gain in the course of a lite-timeby disregarding these 
maxims of an old cynic, you will lose a hundred unils in dignity, 
ill selt-esteem, and in your control over the conditiono of your own 
life and happiness. Crede exj>erio. And now tell me what have 
you learned? What is it you wish me to believe about your father 
and this horrible mystery in the Circus?” 

“ 1 really and sincerely do not wish you to accept anything fronr 
me, my lord, in regard to the subject. It' was the chief of the Detective 
Department who last night gave me reasons— which, alas! 1 feel to 
be only too well founded— for believing that my father has been 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 33 

made the victim ot one of the foulest and most horrible murders 
that ever vras committed.” 

The earl started, and cast a piercin^ look at the young man. His 
eyes expressed a sudden trouble and horror, ot which his observer 
took note. 

“Murders!” he said, with a peculiar, long-drawn intonation. 

‘ A murder. Barton, in Regent Circus, in daylight, and in such 
strange circumstances! You aie half out ot your mind. 1 don't 
vonder at it; and the detective is a dreamer and an ass! Depend 
upon it, whoever the man was who was blown to atoms on Thurs- 
day last in the Circus, it was a case ot suicide. Had your father, 
do you know or suspect, any motive for committing suicide?” 

As he put this question, the eail leaned forward and keenly scru- 
tinized the jmung man’s face. 

George Barton’s eye did not blench; it was full of a strange and 
startled light. A slight shudder had passed through his frame, and 
he drew a long breath, for the words, the movements, the emotion 
of the peer had sent a sudden and awful conviction through his 
soul! Why had the earl started at the word “ murder ”? Why 
should he argue for suicide*? However, he must command him- 
self. He replied to the peer’s last question, 

“ Hone, mv lord. I am as satisfied of that as of my own exist- 
ence. No one knows that better than your lordship. He was up in 
London on your business — he was here to discharge a giave and 
painful duly — on your behalf— not his own— and no man that ever 
lived w’as less likely than my loved and honored father to have 
shrunk from his responsibilities, or to have sought by a cowardly 
suicide to evade them.” 

A flush touched, with a fleeting color, the earl’s pale cheek; his 
eyes seemed to change from gray to green as George Barton’s voice 
lose to loudness and vehemence. 

“Not so loud, I pray you!” he said. “You know I am not 
deaf. But tell me, please, what are those proofs of which you 
speak, which the sagacious Sontag has so mysteriously unearthed.” 

“ Ten minutes before the catastrophe my father was in a shop in 
Regent Street, where he had called for a watch which he— which he 
destined for me.” He paused from emotion. “ He went up Regent 
Street. At the time he had on him a watch which you remember 
well, for you gave it to him.” The earl nodded, and his face 
showed ail intense interest. “ It was one of Frodsham’s. A piece 
of the face of that watch has been found. It was found in a posi- 
tion which leaves no shadow of doubt that it came from a watch 
which was on the victim at the time ot the explosion. Again, 1 
have examined the hand which is at Scotland Yard. 1 am prepared 
to swear it is my father’s hand. He had a slight deform iU" in the 
little Anger.” 

“ My dear George,” said the earl, “ 1 knew him for over tweiitj^- 
five years, and this is the flrst time 1 ever heard of it.” 

It was scarcely noticeable unless special attention had been 
called to it. See, my lord, do you observe anything unusual in my 
right hand, as I hold it and move it— so? No. But I straighten 
all my fingeis. Now you observe that the last little finger- joint re- 
2 


34 


A WEEK OF PASSION". 


mains at an angle to the plane of my palm. I inherit that peculiar- 
ity from my father,” 

” Humph! 1 confess 1 don’t see very much in that.” 

” The hand was my father’s, my lord,” said the young man, with 
emphasis. 

” But, George,” said the peer, “ don’t allow feeling and suspicion 
to betray your judgment, which is usually logical and excellent. 
This is a dream, a fancy, a folly, an utter impossibillt3^ Do not be 
carried away by that idiot in Scotland Yard. They are bound to 
get up some theory. Your father is no more dead than 1 am.” 

“1 would rather he were dead, my lord, than that your theory 
were correct. Georgre Barton, my father, has never run away from 
you, or with any papers of yours, either to Spain or elsewhere. 
You know, from the circumstances, and from the nature of the 
documents, that he had no interest whatever in making away with 
them. There is some fearful mystery here, which, 1 venture to 
suggest to your lordship, it concerns you deeply to assist me to 
solve; for your own honor, and that of the family under whose roof 
we are at this moment, are deeply involved in its solution.” 

At these words, whether from anger or from some other cause, 
the paleness of the earl’s face seemed to intensify. There was some- 
thing in what Barton bad said which startled and annoyed him keen- 
ly. He could scarcely control himself, as the young man, who kept 
his dark eyes fixed upon him, plainly saw; but the peer’s self-com- 
mand was tremendous. He spoke calmly and in a steady voice, 
and his lips tvere curved in a sarcastic smile. 

” The honor of my family and that of the Earl of Tilbury,” he 
said, ” will probably survive the denouement of any domestic 
tragedy in that of my agent. Your father would have had more 
sense than to make such an observation to me; but 1 forgive you; 
you are young and inexperienced, and perhaps we have spoiled you 
a little. 1 should like you to understand that the privileges of a 
godson do not extend to the use of any license or presumption to 
his godfather, especially when he is a peer of the realm. In any 
case, may 1 be permitted to ask you— for 1 confess the rather stilted 
attitude you have been pleased to assume toward me during this in- 
terview surprises, fatigues, and somewhat bores me — will you, 1 
saj% allow me to ask you how you happen to know that such im- 
portant interests as you allude to are at slake? Perhaps you have 
the missing papers!” 

” No, my lord. I can not say positively wdiere they are, though 
I know where they ought to be. My father handed them over to 
Pollard & Pollard.” 

” What!” shouted the earl, while an odd gleam of light flashed 
across his face, ‘‘your father handed them to Pollard & Pollard? 
How can you possibly have come to know that?” 

” 1 have seen their receipt, my lord, specifying the papers and the 
date of delivery. It was the 23d of June.” 

” You have seen a receipt?” 

” Yes, in the Temple. My father, as you are aware, when he was 
up in London, gave me the pleasure of sharing his quarters.” 

” But, of course,’’ said the earl, concealing his anxiety, ‘‘ your 
father did not confide his business — or rather my business — to you?’* 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


35 


“ Pardon me, my lord, 1 have no hesitation in answeiing the 
question frankly. For the past two years there have been no secrets 
between my lather and me. He discussed all his business conli- 
dentially with me, which is to say, all your business. It may have 
bee^i an indiscretion, but 1 -would fain hope it was not a dishonora- 
ble one. You will remember, your lordship encouraged us to hope 
that 1 might succeed my lather in the position of your agent. He 
sought to initiate me into the business of the post which it was his 
ambition, though 1 confess it was not altogether mine, that 1 should 
fill.’' 


“ Do you mean to tell me,” said the earl, excitedly, “ that your 
father confided to you the details of my secret personal and family 
affairs? If you really suppose your father to be deceased, are you 
willing, for some object of your own, to blacKen his memory to his 
employer, as a trustworthy and discreet man of business? I never 
should have believed this of George Barton had 1 not heard it from 
his son!” 


The peer had begun to move nervously about the room, for this 
information had evidently troubled him, but suddenly recollecting 
himself, he sat down with a forced air of indifference. 

” My lord,” said young Barton, “ 1 am sorry if you feel inclined 
to blame my poor father for placing loo much confidence in his son. 
His conduct is, perhaps, open to criticism. But he felt that he 
could trust his confidant (as 1 humbly venture to assure you he 
could implicitly), and he really of late seemed to feel the need of 
some second person to lean on and advise with, so great were his 
anxieties, and so overwhelming the responsibilities of his position. 
You must remember that he was, unfortunately, placed in a situa- 
tion in which he became, in a sense, the trustee, or depositary of 
other interests than yours — a situation created by yourself, in which 
it was impossible for him, as a man of honor, to look only to his 
duty to you as his employer. You know that he was a man who, 
in all he did, constantly bore in mind the uncertainties of life, and 
-was always trying to take precautions to prevent them from injur- 
ing any of the interests confided to his care. This peculiarity, many 
who had business transactions with him thought he carried to ex- 
cess. The business you speak of was the most troublesome, dis- 
agreeable, and important of his life. It weighed upon his mind 
and depressed his spirits. He deemed it a special duty in that case 
to take special precautions — for he had lost all confidence in Pol- 
lard & Pollard— that, in the event of any sudden calamity— though 
he could not possibly have foreseen anything so dreadful as that 
which has actually occurred — some one should be in a position to 
see that no one’s interest should suffer by his death, especially those 
of his friend and mine. Lord Tilbury, or those of the countess, who 
has always treated my father and his family with such kindness and 
consideration.” 

The earl had not lost a word, though he seemed to be looking- 
over and beyond the young man into some far distance, while (he 
latter was speaking. He started, as if from a reverie, when George 
Barton had finished, but he remained still wrapped in thought, with 
his hands crossed behind his head. He seemed to be pursuing some 
train of thought wdiich had suddenly been suggested to him, to be 


36 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


revolving some unsettled plan, tor once or twice be opened bis lips 
to speak, and quickl}^ shut them again. Then, taking down bis 
bands, be spoke quietly, and with an appearance, at least, of cor- 
diality. 

George," be said, “ wbat you have just told me comes upon 
me as a surprise. 1 was not aware that there was another creature 
living, except your father, the solicitors, and myself, who knew 
anything of the exceedingly grave affairs to which you allude. If 
he has, indeed, confided ail the particulars to you, you must know 
what 1 mean by qualifying them in those terms." George Barton 
bowed. " Well, it may be for the best after all. For the moment 1 
am unable to judge. You are young and inexperienced. 1 must 
reflect. 1 muk seek for further information. 1 am in the hands of 
Pollard & Pollard." 

" Unhappily, my lord!" 

The words suddenly escaped from the young man’s lips before he 
had taken time to think. 

The earl threw a glance of irritation at him, which, however, he 
immediately suppressed, and resuming his calmness of look and 
speech, went on: 

" ‘‘ Well, you can understand the delicacy of my position. Your 
father was arranging to relieve me from it, at a great sacrifice to me 
which 1 was anxious and willing to make. The means of doing it 
w^re in his hands. They have disappeared with him — unless," said 
the earl, his face suddenly lightening — ‘‘ unless the papers are at 
your chambers." 

‘‘ They are not, my lord," said George Barton, with decision. " 1 
have already told you that they are at Pollard Pollard’s." 

" Humph!" said the earl, thinking aloud. " The mystery thick- 
ens. You are certain you have seen the receipt?" 

“ Absolutely certain, my lord. A sort of copy of it is in a place 
of security known only to me. 1 had it in my hands this morning. 
IMy father had the original on him on Thursday when he left the 
Temple to meet you." 

The earl’s mind was evidently working at some hidden problem, 
for he had spoken, and continued to speak, absently and mechanic- 
ally. 

‘‘You are certain you have it? Humph! well, that requires ex- 
planation. I am more puzzled than ever. It is like a maze— one 
finds an imposse at every turn. What could he gain by disappear- 
ing? He could do nothing with the bonds. Pollards say his ac- 
counts must be in disorder." ‘ 

" They lie, my lord," said George Barton. 

The earl bridled at this rude interruption. 

‘‘ Strong words are a mistake, George, except on very rare occa- 
sions." 

‘‘ This is one, my lord. Forgive me, but 1 can not hear a word, 
from any one whatever, w'hich either directly or remotely attacks 
my father’s honor." 

" Well— 1 can not blame you — 1 must take time to thiniv this 
over. Gracious heavens! Where is your father? Why has he dis- 
appeared? All this has profoundly troubled, harried, upset me. We 
can do no good by talking further at this moment. If you luive any 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


37 

regard for me, for my family, in which you have always been 
treated as a friend — if you have any regard for your father’s mem- 
ory— you will do nothing hastily.” 

The earl once more keenly and anxiously scrutinized the young 
man’s face, as if he would pierce to the very center of his brain. 
He had not forgotten George Barton’s admission that his object in 
coming to Grosveuor Place was not to see him. He had the suspi- 
ciousness of a man who had a grave secret to conceal— over whose 
head hung a sword of Damocles. 

” You will do your best, let me hope, to assist us in clearing up 
this business. In your father 1 have lost, at a critical moment, a 
wise and devoted counselor. He only could understand and appre- 
ciate the difficulties of my position, and do justice to my intentions. 
To you, 1 can only sa}’’ that, if your father’s memory is cleared, as 
1 trust it may be, and 3'’ou will behave with discretion, 1 shall know 
how to prove the sincerity of my obligation to you.” 

The earl uttered these last words with grace and feeling. A 
strange light glowed in the dark eyes of the young man. Some 
grave predetermination was struggling with some flash of comfort 
or pleasure, which the words he had just heard had sent through 
his being. He took the earl’s offered hand and pressed it. He did 
not venture to speak. The peer did not detain him, observing that 
he was under the influence of secret emotion. He simply rang the 
bell for the footman, and turned to the table which was covered 
with papers. He also was troubled and preoccupied. 

Geoige Barton, seeing that it was useless tor tlie present to press 
for an interview with the Countess of Tilbury, and perhaps not now 
so anxious to precipitate matters as he had been, ciuietly accepted 
his dismissal, and left the house, so buried in reflection as hardly to 
be conscious what he was doing, 

“ Simpson,” said the earl, entering the hall a few minutes after 
the door had closed on his involuntary visitor, and buttoning his 
gloves, while the footman stood attentive with the peer’s hat and 
stick, ” whom did JMr. George Barton ask to see?” 

“ The countess, your lordship,” 

” Well, if he should call again, and 1 am here, 1 will see him. If 
1 should not be here, you can say that her ladyship is engaged.” 

” Yes, your lordship.” The earl went out. 

” What do you think of that, Mr. Perkins?” said Simpson to the 
footman, alter he had placed a couple of inches of oak between 
himself and the peer. ” We ain’t my Lord Selby’s gentlemen, and 
neither the countess nor the young earl would be pleased to know 
he were a-interfering with their visitors, be they great or little 
ones.” 

” ’Xactly,” said xMr. Perkins, ” but he does what he likes, does 
the earl, and what he likes is to have his own way. It 1 was you, 
31r. Simpson, 1 would just mention it to Mrs. Collops, her lady- 
ship’s lady-in-waiting, and take her advice about it, before 1 car- 
ried out such orders as them. He’s foxy, the old earl, you know, 
and the young loid was always very free with that young Mr. Bar- 
ton.” 

“ Ay!” returned Mr. Simpson. “ And old Mr. Barton is dead! 1 


38 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


guess from ^vliat Mr. George stud lie is the very man that assfisiated 
himsell in Regent Circus the other day.” 

“ W — w — what!” 

‘‘Yes. And there’s something very mysterious about all this. 
I’ll advise with Mrs. Collops, as you suggest. Her ladyship likes to 
have her own way, too, and no interferience Do you think, Mr. 
Perkins, that you could manage to look to the door for a few min- 
utes, while 1 run down-stairs and take a little snack? Cards and 
inquiriL'S will be beginning in a half an hour.” 

“ Ceitingly, Mr. Simpson— always most willing to oblige a gen- 
tleman.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

A CASE VERY IMPERFECTLY STATED. 

Mr. Sontag had not permitted any hint to slip into the news- 
papers of his suspicions concerning the identity of the individual 
•who had perished in Regent Circus, and he rather encouraged light 
rumor, the sweet Delilah of the gay reporter, to have her way. He 
intended to pursue his inquiries in an indirect and underground 
manner. Were his conjectures accurate, he was sure that he would 
not be able, by any direct inquiries, to worm out the particulars of a 
conspiracy involving people of the highest position and resources, 
people who had evidently been able to command the assistance of 
the most daring and scientific criminals. In such a case he must 
expect to be countermined, to have a thousand ingenious obstacles 
sprung in his way, even perhaps to be betrayed and sold by some of 
his subordinates.* He was anxious, in order to lay a firm basis for 
his case, to ascertain, without giving any hint of his suspicions, 
what were the exact relations of Mr. Barton with the Selby family, 
and what the circumstances which had preceded his disappearance. 
Tlie jDtrsons who had killed Mr. Barton had evidently' counted upon 
a destruction so complete as to leave no trace of his identity; and 
so paramount was this object that they' did not shrink, in order to 
secure it, from imperiling the lives of other people. Hence he con- 
cluded they were desperate people in a desperate situation. But 
what was the situation which was so desperate that it prompted 
some person or persons to resort to such a horrible species of crime, 
in order to lid themselves of the business agent of a peer? 

Y"oung Barton had gone to the Detective Department at the first 
suspicion of foul play, and his ability and sincerity Had favorably 
impressed Mr. Sontag, who felt obliged, after George had recognized 
his father’s hand, to communicate to him the striking circumstances 
relating to the watch. Mr. Sontag, however, was puzzled to find 
that young Barton, though hinting at strange and terrible suspi- 
cions, preserved an obstinate silence with regard to the business 
which had brought his father to London, or to his relations at that 
time with the Earl of Selby. Mr. Sontag did not press him. He 
hoped to get at the tacts in time. He had not the least idea of worry- 
ing Lord Selby, or his solicitors. He took the instructions of 
Messrs. Pollard & Pollard to spare no eftort in endeavoring to dis- 
cover the whereabouts, dead or alive, of Mr. Barton. He asked 


A WEEK OF PASSIOiT. 


39 


those ^rentlemen no questions, acceptinff any statements they m:icle 
without pressing for explanations. What those statements were will 
appear hereafter. 

In the newspapers of JMonday, the day on which young Barton 
had made his visit in Grosvenor Place, the following advertisement 
had appeared: 

“£100 REWARD will be given for information of the where- 
abouts of George Barton, Solicitor, oP Manor Calham, Dibdale, 
Yorks. And£500-PIYE HUNDRED POUNDS— for the recov- 
ery of a number of documents, last in the possession of the said 
George Barton, consisting of deeds of title, bonds, and other papers, 
of a confidential character, and of great value, a list of which may 
be seen by any person wiio can prove to the satisfaction of the 
undersigned that he is likely to be able to give any information of 
their whereabouts, or that of the said George Barton, by 

“POLLARD & POLLARD, 

“ bolicitors to the Rt. Hon the Earl op Selby, K.G., 155 
Lincoln’s Inn Fields.” 

When Mr. Sontag read this advertisement, which was inserted 
without consulting him, he simply cut it out and stucE it in a new 
memorandum book, which w^as marked — “ G. B.” 

Y’oung Barton, his faculties concentrated on one object, had not 
looked that morning into the advertisement columns of the news- 
papers, though he had perused with care the latest meager details 
worked up by the reporters, of “ The Regent Circus IMyslery,” as, 
by common consent, the tragedy was called. Returnins: to his 
chambers in King’s Bench Walk after his interview with the Earl 
of Selby, he w^as surprised to meet on his staircase an old barrister, 
more renowned for his legal knowledge and acumen than for the 
extent of his practice, in whose chambers he had read the year pre- 
viously. Mr. Le Breton was one of the elder Barton’s oldest and 
most valued friends. 

The young man’s face as he mounted the staircase w^as clouded 
with thought and anxiety. Since his interview with the earl a vast 
depression had settled down upon his spirit. He was so wrapped 
up in his reflections that he would have passed the barrister unnoticed, 
had not the latter, touching him gently on the arm, said, 

“Barton, are you going to cut me? Why, what does all this 
mean?” 

“ You, Mr. Le Breton!” said George, his face lighting up for a 
moment with a sad smile, as he grasped the other’s hand, with the 
sudden energy of a man in the act of falling, who lays hold of the 
nearest support. 

“ Yes,” replied the barrister, slipping his hand through Barton’s 
arm, and turning to accompany him. “ 1 have been up to see you. 
What is all this about? What on earth is the matter?” 

“ Stay,” said George Barton, gulping down his emotion, “ let us 
get into" my room. ” 

He could scarcely stand. The elder man supported him until he 
reached his room, and fell, rather than threw himself, on a chair. 

The barrister took a seat, and waited for his friend to recover from 


40 


A WEEK OP PASSTOK. 


Ill's emotion. Barton had hid his face in his hands and the tears ran 
freely through his fingers. The other, from delicacy, appeared not 
to notice. He rose, and filling with a trembling hand a pipe which 
lay on the mantel-piece, and lighting it with deliberation, gave the 
young man time to master his feelings. Under Le Breton’s arm 
ihere was pressed tightly a morning journal. He moved quietly 
about the chamber, puffing out tremendous volumes of smoke, 
looked at the books, looked out of window, examined the carpet, in 
fact looked everywhere that he possibly could without seeming to 
remark his young friend. It was thoroughly English sympathy and 
reserve, deep ana hot as a sleeping volcano, the top of which is cov- 
ered with snow. 

Five minutes thus passed in a silence which was as manly as it 
was affecting. 

At. length George Barton, wiping the tears from his eyes, and 
making a violent effort to master his grief, looked up. His face, 
ordinarily of a healthy brown tint, had turned of a yellow and 
sickly pallor, his eyes were weary and destitute of their usual fire; 
he seemed to have aged ten years in a few days. 

“ Forgive me, Le Breton,” he said, in a trembling voice, “ for 
not sparing you the pain of witnessing such emotion. 1 could 
not help it. 1 am suffering deeply.” 

” dear fellow, don’t'mind me! I’m an old friend. 1 guessed, 
you know, there was something serious — that was why 1 came. 1 
saw this, you know.” He took the paper from under his arm. 

George started. How could Le Breton know of any connection 
between the mystery of Regent Circus and George Barton? The 
disappearance of the latter had not yet been made public, so far as 
he knew. 

” AVhat do jmu mean, Le Breton?” 

” Why, you know, of course— this advertisement — your father.” 

Young Barton suddenly recovering his vigor, jumped up and 
snatched the newspaper from the other's hand. The old lawyer, 
with the instinct of his profession, had marked, in solid lines of ink, 
a small oblong space in the ” agony column.” Barton’s eyes had 
taken possession of its contents at a glance. His eyes shot flame. 

” How cruel! how dastardly!” he said, dashing the paper on the 
ground. ” And he must have known it all the time he was talking 
to me.” 

He looked at Le Breton with such a dangerous light in his eyes 
that the latter drew back instinctively. George noticed the move- 
ment, and stretched out his hand. 

” Forgive me, Le Breton. It is enough to drive a man mad. 1 
need all my self-control, and 1 am, as well, much in want of advice 
and sympathy. Some good genius has sent you here. Sit down 
and let us talk. First, let me sport my oak. AYe must not be in- 
terrupted.” 

He proceeded to shut his outer door, and when he returned to the 
room his manner was calm and decided. 

” Le Breton,” he said, as he look a seat at the table, and rested 
his elbows oii it, ” you are the first who has called my attention to 
this advertisement, and nevertheless, an hour ago, 1 was closeted 
with Lord Selby!” 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


41 


“ What does it mean?” 

Le Breton’s pipe had gone out, but he kept sucking at it like a 
sugar-stick. 

‘‘ It means one of the most infernal plots that was ever hatched 
to ruin the reputation of one of the purest and most honorable men 
that ever lived.” 

Integer vites scelerisque purus,'^ murmured the old barrister, 
with the pipe between his teeth. ” I never knew another who an- 
swered so well to the description as George Barton.” 

” Thank you,” said George Barton, rising and taking the barris- 
ter’s hand and pressing it warmly. ” Your words act on me like a 
cordial.” 

He resumed his seat. His calmness of manner and steadiness of 
voice were now phenomenal. 

“ Le Breton— he is dead!” 

The barrister started. For the first time he noticed that young 
Barton was in mourning. 

“Dead!” continued Barton. “And he did not die a natural 
death — a horrible and unheard of crime has taken him away. Le 
Breton, can you believe it? It was my father who was killed in 
Regent Circus.” 

The horror and pain which appeared in Le Breton’s face were 
indescribable. He attempted to babble out a tew words, but his 
voice died upon his lips. The pipe dropped out of his hands upon 
the fioor. 

‘‘ You will help me,” continued George Barton, after a pause, 
” to judge whether 1 am drearring or demented, or whether 1 have 
any intelligence remaining to me. Listen to my statement of all the 
facts 1 am yet in possession of, with all that incredulity which you 
used to teach me was the proper attitude of counsel in approaching 
the consideration of a case submitted for his opinion, and then tell 
me your own inferences. But first 1 must say that behind the facts 
known to the police, and which 1 am going to relate to you, there is 
a series of facts not bearing directly on the question of identity, but 
pointing clearly to motives for a crime, of which I can not inform 
you. 1 have my suspicions that they have a sinister bearing on the 
fate of my father, 1 can not help thinking they must have; though, 
if it be so, they ccmpromise persons of the liighest position and in- 
volve consequences which 1 shudder to contemplate. Indeed, 1 
dare not permit myself to contemplate them, they seem so incredi- 
ble, so impossible. Secrets of a great and powerful family are in- 
volved — secrets- which came into my possession under the seal of the 
most sacred confidence, and v\hich nothing but the last extremity 
would justify me in revealing to any living soul outside that fam- 
ily, to whoni I am bound by honor and sympathy and gratitude — 
and — affection.” His voice trembled as he pronounced the last 
word, and he hid his face in his hands. “ The advertisement,” he 
continued, ” to which you nave drawn my attention of course dis- 
closes that something more is concerned in my father’s disappearance 
than his own interests or good name. So far I have a right to 
use it. It is a disclosure voluntarily made by those concerned. But 
of the nature and bearing of the documents which are therein said 
to have disappeared along with my father 1 am not free to give you 


42 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


any clew or intormalion. Please bear that in mind, and do not ask 
me for any explanations in that direction.” 

” It seems to me, my dear Barton,” said the old barrister, resum- 
ing his accustomed dry, legal manner and attitude, ” that 1 am 
asked to advise on a case of which only the least material facts are 
to be submitted to me. True, that it is generally the fate of our 
profession — for, either from looseness of intellect or carelessness or 
malice prepense, the attorneys rarely tell us the whole truth when 
they present a case for our opinion. It is very easy for an ingenious 
attorney who wants to make business to conceal some important 
facts, and so to get an opinion which justifies him in plunging a 
client into a lawsuit; and when the poor client has lost his case, it is 
hardly possible to discover where the responsibility lies— it is, I ex- 
pect, generally thrown on the unfortunate counsel. You are very 
frank,, and you will not hold me responsible for any opinion given 
on an imperfect case stated. However, let me see what 1 can make 
out of the fragments you are going to submit to me.” 

Barton then, in brief, trenchant style, laid before the barrister all 
the circumstantial evidence relating to the identity of the person who 
had perished in Regent Circus, with 'vvhich the reader is already ac- 
quainted, first stating that his father had come up to London with 
regard to a matter of business of the most vital interest to Lord Sel- 
by and his sister, tire Countess of Tilbury: that he had had in his 
possession papers which were so valuable and important as to have 
given him great anxiety so long as he was responsible for them ; 
that these papers had been handed over to Pollard & Pollard, who 
had given a receipt for the same, which he, George Barton, had 
seen in his father’s possession on the morning of the day he disap- 
peared; and a list of the documents mentioned in the receipt, which 
he had himself drawn up and compared with the original receipt, 
and which list had been initialed by his father, was now lying there 
in the private desk of him, George Barton, junior, but could not at 
present be shown to his friend, because the papers were therein par- 
ticularized. 

” But stay,” interrupted the lawyer, ” Pollard & Pollard them- 
selves offer in this advertisement to give the particulars of the lost 
documents!” 

” So they do,” replied George, struck by the perspicacity of the 
old lawyer. ”1 had forgotten tfiai. Well, then, 1 ‘suppose there 
can be no harm in showing it to you. 1 will do so directly.” 

” Where is the original receipt?” inquired Le Breton. 

“It was in my poor father’s pocket-book— it disappeared with 
him.” 

He then went on to relate that a very violent scene had taken place 
on the afternoon of Wednesday, the 25th, between his father and 
Pollard & Pollard, who had wished him to agree to a certain line of 
action which he deemed to be dishonorable; that, on his return from 
the interview, he was much excited, and expressed hiirrself with 
regard to those “ gentlemen”— it is a saying in the profession that 
‘‘ every solicitor is a gentleman by Act of Parliament,” the only pos- 
sible power which could have established such a paradox— in stronger 
terms of suspicion and disgust than young George Barton ever re- 
membered to have heard his father use of any human being; that 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


43 


the next morniug they had breakfasted together in his chambers at 
the Temple, after whicli George went to read in the library, leaving 
his father writing; that the elder Barton had received a letter from 
the Earl of Selby, who had been absent for three or four days in 
the country, stating that he would arrive at St. Pancras Station at 
four o’clock, and requesting Mr. Barton to meet him at the family 
mansion in Port man Square, at five that afternoon; that he had 
agreed to return to the Temple after the interview, and to dine with 
his son at ‘ The Rainbow ’ at seven o’clock. 

“ I left him sitting there, writing,” said young Barton, with emo 
lion. “ He smiled at me as 1 went out, and said, ‘ We’ll circumvent 
those rascals yet it the earl only holds true and has courage. ’ 1 
never saw him again. You know, as 1 am not yet called, 1 keep 
no clerk. The laundress left at half-past ten, and he was here then. 
The next trace we have of him is his calling at Lund, the watch- 
maker’s, in Regent Street. He intended to give me the Watch he 
used to carry before the Earl of Selby presented him with a mag- 
nificent chronometer watch, made by Erodsham.” 

Y’oung Barton then related the other facts which he had learned 
from Mr. Sontag. 

The old lawyer had listened with close attention to this history, 
and spite of his sympathy with his young friend, whose genuine 
afifection for his father could not fail to excite emotion, even in one 
whose enthusiasm and faith in mankind had long since gone out in 
ashes, or now only glowed in faint embers, he could not repress the 
suspicion of incredulity which too long an experience of the world 
and of human nature had made habitual to him. It was impossible 
for him to believe that George Barton was the individual who had 
met his death in Regent Circus. It was inconceivable to the old 
friend who knew George Barton so well that he, staid, timid about 
fire-arms, and by no means givn to curious inquiries or experiments, 
should be carrying about explosives, especially in the crowded 
streets of the metropolis. Even should his anxieties have turned 
his brain tow’ard suicide, that was certainly not the method of self- 
destruction he would have chosen. It was supposable that the man 
in Regent Circus might have been contemplating suicide, and that 
he had furnished himself with nitro-glycerine for the purpose, and 
that it had gone oft prematurely —but George Barton was not that 
man. 

Moreover, he was one who, even in suicide, w’ould have thought 
of others. He would have spared others any pain or danger in de- 
stroying himself. He would, if anything, have taken a poison. 
Thus Le Breton argued to himself. Well, how could such a man 
get charged with dynamite or nitro-glycerine without knowing it? 
Had some malicious person slipped a cartridge into his pocket in the 
street? The idea seemed too absurd to be w'orlh discussion. Such 
a person ran the risk of being himself blown up, of being seen, of 
being caught. Le Breton did not say to his young friend, but he 
thought, that the latter’s confidence in his father’s integrity, and his 
anxiety to prove it, led him to accept too readily the very imperfect 
evidence which was in possession of the police as substantiating his 
theory. The hand, he admitted, was a very strong point, but after 
all it was so easy to be deceived by a hand, especially after death. 


44 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


The litlle finger was a coincidence interesting but conclusive. 
Again, Mr. Sontag’s watch theory was ingenious, but trivial. 
Frodsham’s watches, product ot more than a century ot manufact- 
ure, were not numbered by hundreds, but by scores of thousands. 
]f the worthy Yorkshireman had also caught a piece of the Swiss 
watch as well on his clothes, that w^ould have been much more con- 
clusive. 

Le Breton felt w’hat pain it would cause the young man to combat 
the strange persuasion that his fatner had met his death in the man- 
ner suggested, but he was loo honest to conceal his opinion. 

“ Without more conclusive proof,” he said, ” I think we must 
abandon your theory of your father’s death. 1 think you have ac- 
cepted it too hastil 3 ^” 

“ Then you believe that he has run away?” cried George, in a 
tone of anguish. ” Is that consistent with your integer mice 
scelerisqm purus?'' 

‘* It does not follov/, my dear Barton, that your father is not dead 
— has not been made away with. It is that which 1 wish to impress 
upon you. While you are pursuing this chimera, you may be losing 
important traces elsewhere.” 

“No,” said George Barton; “ 1 have so firm a persuasion that 1 
am right, that 1 do not feel it worth AvUile to follow up any other 
line ot inquiry. Le Breton, you will think me very foolish and 
visionary, but from the very moment that my anxiety began with 
the non-appearance of my father on Thursday night — so soon as 1 
had ascertained at Lord Selby’s, which 1 did at eleven o’clock from 
the earl himself, "who professed to be greatly put out, my father’s 
failure to keep his appointment— I had a suspicion of foul play. 1 
drove immediately to Scotland Y^ard, 1 visited every place where I 
could fancy he had gone. 1 went to the hospitals to satisfy myself 
he had not been the victim of an accident or of sudden illness. The 
earl had been to Lord Tilbury’s. He was the first to tell me of that 
terrible business in the Circus. Somehow the conviction flashed 
across me there that it w'as my father who had perished under Lord 
Tilbury’s eyes— an incident which, it you only knew all the facts, 
would appear to you to increase the improbability ot my theory, so 
inconceivably strange and dramatic does the coincidence appear. 
The young earl, as you know, has never recovered consciousness. 
He knew my father well. He alone possibly could clear up the 
mystery — he may have caught a glimpse of him— but there is little 
hope of his recovery. Since that time 1 have hardly slept a wink. 
1 have thought ot nothing else; my conviction has grown stronger 
the more 1 review the circumstances. That conviction 1 can not 
shake oft. The interest that certain persons had in destroying the 
undoubted proofs of their criminality which were in my father’s 
possession — an immense sum of money which was involved — ” He 
stopped suddenly. He was forgetting the caution he had imposed 
upon himself. 

The old barrister caught at this hint, but he saw that George did 
not wish to compromise some important personages, whom he nat- 
urally guessed to be either the Selbys or the Tilburys. He said, 

“ By the way, did you make any inquiries at Pollard & Pollard’s?” 

“ Yes. The partners said that*in the circumstances they did not 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


45 


consider that they would be justified in granting me an interview 
They instructed a clerK to tell me that they had placed the matter in 
the hands ot the police, and that 1 must communicate with Scotland 
Yard.” 

“ Oh, well, that was natural, was it not? Have you any objec- 
tion to tell me what position they occupy in these serious affairs of 
which you speak?” 

” That is my difficulty. 1 can hardly answer that question with- 
out compromising others. However, 1 will say that their position 
and character are gravely imperiled; they are so mixed up in the 
dangerous situation of which my father held the ke}^ that it is im- 
possible to conceive them separated from the persons concerned.’' 

“ Take care, George Barton. Pollard & Poflard is one of the most 
respectable firms in the profession — the very top of the tree— im- 
mensely strong, with untarnished reputation, and the partners are 
considered to be two of the very ablest and shrewdest men of busi- 
ness in the law-list. They are enormously rich, and beyond any 
suspicion, and yet, if 1 understand you, jmur theory — I must call it 
so — is based on a criminal imputation against this firm.” 

Barton for a few moments remained silent and undecided. 

“ Le Breton,” he said, ” 1 can say it to you, though you will 
probably think that trouble has disordered my brain. 1 answer your 
supposition in the affirmative — ‘ It is.’ I told you what my father 
thought and said after the stormy interview on Tuesday afternoon, 
I know the facts, and 1 agree with him. 1 wish it were only Pol- 
lard & Pollard wffiose position and interests were in danger, or 
against Avhom my suspicions were directed! 1 w^ould not hesitate 
tor a moment to declare those suspicions to the police.” 

” Hum!” said Le Breton, a particle which has not a particle of 
meaning, but an ejaculation, nevertheless, which may conceal a 
world of thoughts and ideas. He reflected silently for a few min- 
utes. He had a real affection for the Barton family, a profound 
sympathy with his young friend, and a sincere desire to help him; 
but there was a mystery in all that he had heard which defied his 
ingenuity. Besides, it is not a lawyer’s business to imagine, his 
habit is to reason from facts, and the facts disclosed seemed to the 
barrister to prove that George Barton was laboring under a halluci- 
nation; that his usually clear, penetrating intellect had had its vision 
distorted by recent events: a result which was not surprising. 

” By the way,” he said, “you promised to show me a copy of 
that list of papers.” 

“Ah! yes.” 

Young Barton unlocked his desk, and took from a private drawer 
a sheet of paper in folio, on which was engrossed in his own hand, 
a copy of the list referred to, which was initialed at the bottom 
“ G. B.,” under the letters “ Exd.” 

The barrister perused it with great deliberation. 

“ Humph!” he said, opening his eyes wide, and fixing them keenly 
on George Barton, “ what does this mean?” He read: 

“ ‘ Brief of Title to the Estates, lands, tenements ’—hum, hum— 
‘ known and described as Linton Grange and Linton Park, in the 
County of Somerset, the property of the Rt. Honorable Isidora Maria 
Nevilton, Countess of Tilbury,’ et cetera, et cetera. ‘Deed of 


46 


A WEEK OF PASSION'. 


mortgage and charge of life interest in the same from the same to the 
Rt. Honorable Edward Charles Eversly Layton ’ — hum, hum— 

‘ Earl of Selby, K.G.,’ et cetera — hum — ‘ a first charge of £50,000 
— hum — *266 Bonds of one thousand dollars each, July coupon 
attached, of the Four per cent. Funded Loan of the United States 
of America, numbered ’ — hum, hum — the deuce! 

“ Why,” continued the old barrister, “ this is— monumental! Do 
you aver seriously these were all delivered to Pollard & Pollard?” 

“ 1 tell you I saw the receipt.” 

” When?” 

“ My father had it in his hand on Thursday morning.” 

“ Did he go to Pollards’ after you saw him?” 

” 1 can not say. Knowing on what terms he had left them on 
Wednesday afternoon, and what he intended to do on Thursday 
afternoon, 1 should say it was impossible that be could have called 
upon them on Thursday morning.” 

” And yet they advertise, apparently, for these identical papers?”^ 

‘‘ Precisely.” 

“Were no other documents in question?” 

“ None.” 

“ Had they any interest in suppressing any of these documents? 
1 don’t see how they could have; the character of the documents 
sufficiently indicates that — a brief of title, mortgage, some bonds to 
bearer. Surely no one would suppress or run away with such docu- 
ments as those. 1 am more mystified than ever.” 

George Barton said nothing. The barrister reflected with a puz- 
zled face. At length he said, 

“ When did the young Earl of Tilbury come of age?” 

“ In February of this year.” 

“Have the accounts of the executor or executors of the estate 
been settled and discharged?” 

“ The settlement is not yet completed. Lord Tilbury has absolute 
confidence in Lord Selby, the sole executor. Lord Selby, over- 
whelmed by his own engagements, intrusted the entire administra- 
tion to Pollard & Pollard. The estate was over a million and three 
quarters, and of course the accounts for eight years are long and 
complicated. Lord Tilbury had great confidence in my father. He 
proposed tiiat, as my father had had nothing to do with the admin- 
istration, he should go through the accounts with the Pollards, and 
wind them up.” 

“Ha! and there was a disagreement?” said Le Breton. 

“ Well, they did not agree.” 

“ And upon this,” cried the barrister, turning upon young Barton 
and eying him keenly, “ you base a theory of foul play on the part 
of such a firm as Pollard & Pollard?” 

“ 1 haven’t said that.” 

“ You imply it.” 

“ 1 don’t even imply it. 1 tell you there are other circumstances, 
which all your ingenuity would not enable you to guess at, which 
made my father dangerous to certain parties.” 

Le Breton did not push the matter further in this direction. He 
continued to study the list before him as if he were endeavoring to 
extract some inspiration from the bald statements it contained. 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


47 


Suddenly lie struck liis forehead with his palm. 

‘'Barton,” he said, ”1 recall something vaguely which made 
some noise at the time. Did not the old Earl of Selby disinherit the 
present one'?” 

” Well, as far as he could. The family estates were settled, but 
there was a large personalty, and the estate of Linton, which he had 
purchased in his lite-time. The present earl married a French 
countess, with wiiom his father had fallen in love long after his first 
wife’s death. She w'as a woman of great beauty, talent, and virtues. 
She preferred the sou to the father; and notwithstanding all the 
eflorts of her family, she married the present earl. The old earl 
never forgave her or his son either.” 

” Egad,” remarked Le Breton, parenthetically — he was a bachelor 
— ” 1 never could understand how men could make such fools of 
themselves about women. One woman is as good as another.” 

” Ah!” replied George Barton, ” there are mortals so weak as not 
to share your opinion. Certainly the old earl did not. He never 
married again, and never afterward appeared in England. He lived 
on the continent, between Paris, Homburg, and Cannes, He was 
very fond of his only daughter, the Countess of Tilbury. The Earl 
of Tilbury, father oi; the present earl, was also a favorite of his; he 
bad a good deal to do with the marriage. The Countess of Tilbury 
always remained on good terms with her brother, in spite of the 
rupture. with his father, and she was also exceedingly intimate with 
his wife. 1 remember Lady Selby well. Her daughter. Lady Blanche 
Layton, who has come out this season, resembles her.” 

Had the old barrister been looking at George Barton’s face at this 
moment, he would have observed that his eyes brightened and a 
slight flush colored his cheek underneath the brown. 

” Lady Selby died six years ago, leaving several children, the 
eldest Lord Layton, who has made such a mess of it on the turf. 
The earl has paid an infinite sum of money on his account. It was 
one of my father’s greatest anxieties to find this money. The earl’s 
own expenditure is not measured, and vast as the Selby estates are, 
the dralts upon his resources have been seriously burdensome.” 

” And yet Lord Selby has been able to lend the Countess of Til- 
bury fifty thousand pounds!” 

” ] can not tell you anything about that.” 

” At all events, the old Earl of Selby left Linton to Lady Til- 
bury.” 

“For life only, with remainder to her son. He also left her 
nearly two hundred thousand pounds in personalty — shares, consols, 
French rentes, et cetera — but she was rec[uested only to take the en- 
joyment of the dividends. He requested her to hold the principal 
intact for the benefit of her son; and there was one peculiar tning 
about it— he made her sole executor.” 

‘‘ So that, in fact, she has absolute power of disposition?” 

” Fes; and she is a woman who is worthy of the confidence her 
father reposed in her. My father said so, and 1 regard his judgment 
as infallible. He knew her well. She always treated him with 
friendship, and sometimes consulted him. This has added lately to 
the anxiety of his position.” 

‘‘ According to this there appears to have been some great irregu- 


48 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


larity. Lord Selby was the eseciitor of the estate to which the 
young Earl of Tilbury succeeded from his father. Young Tilbury, 
on the other hand, was the remainder-man to the Linton Grange 
property, which the countess, his mother, has charged to the Earl 
of Selby. ” 

” For the purpose of covering advances stated in the deed to have 
been made by Lord Selby to the Tilbury estates, to pay ofi a charge 
which fell due on part of those estates.” 

” Even then the countess could only charge her own life interest. 

” Precisely, and it is a very imperfect security. Still, Linton 
Grange brings in £12,000 a year. In addition to this the countess 
deposited those United States bonds, and paid a large sum in cash, 
for which she has no security but the earl’s engagement. It was a 
family arrangement, promoted by Pollard & Pollard, ostensibly to 
protect a portion of the Tilbury estates.” 

” Are the Tilbury estates valuable?” 

” Over a million, and a large personalty, three-quarters of a mill- 
ion more.” 

” And yet you say Lord Selby has had to make a large advance 
to the estate out of his own resources?” 

” Y"ou see what the paper you hold in your hand says.” 

” 1 see what the paper says,” said the old barrister, testily, ” but 
neither 1 nor any one else can make anything out of it. The situa- 
tion seems to be an utterly unimaginable one.” 

‘‘Precisely; and if 1 were to tell you the real facts you would 
hardly believe them.” 

” You hint that Pollard & Pollard were interested in keeping these 
transactions secret, and yet they seem to be prepared to make known 
the contents of this receipt. That is incredible.” 

“ Let me tell you something. It was only this morning that the 
Earl of Selby learned from me that a copy of the receipt was in ex- 
istence. He seemed to be very much startled when Hold him of it.” 

George Barton laid a peculiar emphasis on these words. 

” ^YhatI At the very moment wlien he must have known of the 
advertisement offering to show a copy of the list! My dear Bar- 
ton,” said the barrister, with an air of compassion, ‘‘really now, 
what can you have in your head? What can you expect me to 
think?” 

, ‘‘ Le Breton,” said young Barton, rising and leaning across the 

table, while he spoke with the greatest firmness and sincerity of 
manner, ‘‘ my belief is that Pollard & Pollard will never show a 
correct list of those papers to any one. 1 ought to have thought of 
that earlier. I ought not to have shown them to you. I trus^t you 
as my father’s intimate friend, and beg that 5mu will forget that you 
have ever seen that list.” 

The barrister nodded. 

‘‘ The iruili is,” he said, ” my dear fellow, that all you have told 
me conveys no ideas to me whatever. 1 couldn’t possibly advise 
you in the circumstances. 1 only say, don’t be too certain that your 
father has perished in the manner you suppose — don’t believe he is 
dead till you have absolute proofs — don’t spare any exertion to dis- 
cover the truth, and my last word is, don’t let any absurd notions 
of honor or chivalry prevent you from disclosing in the proper quar- 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


49 

ters any intormalion you have which may tend to elucidate j'our 
lather’s fate.” 

‘‘1 am in a fearfully difficult position,” said young Barton. 
” T\'ith all my inexperience, I have alone to try and counteract a 
conspiracy concocted by some of the shrewdest and most cunning 
heads that ever euiraged in a great crirhe, 1 have to get at the bot- 
tom of a most dishonorable and criminal transaction, and 1 have to 
try to do this without injustice to people whom 1 have been taught 
to respect, without injury to innocent persons who may be involved 
in the consequences; and yet, at all hazards, 1 must and will vindicate 
my father’s memory and take care that the authors of this dastardly 
crime shall meet the punishment they deserve. To kill such a man! 
So noble, so pure, so gentle, so good! so generous to his enemies, 
and so kind even to wrong-doers, sinners, and outcasts! Good God! 
the thought of the injustice of it nearly drives me mad! And to 
think that his murderers, those -who planned and suggested his 
death in this violent and ignoble fashion, may go unpunislied— may 
continue to live on and enjoy their ill-gotten wealth! By heavenl 
Le Breton, if 1 thought that were possible, 1 would renounce faith 
in anything but evil and selfishness!” 

” Tut, tut!” said old Le Breton, who was moving uneasily about, 
in and out among the furniture, as if he w^ere Ihridding a nmze, his 
hands in his pockets and his elbows stuck out like the wings of an 
untrussed fotvl — speaking to himself, of course. ” 1 don’t like this 
— overexcitement — brain-fever — quite in the ‘ Ercles ’ vein.” 

” But 1 am resolved,” continued Barton, ” and 1 trust 1 shall have 
the courage and the strength to do my duty in the matter.” 

“Amen!” said Le Breton, gently. ‘‘1 have unbounded confi- 
dence in your abilities, but the task you are proposing to yourself, 1 
can see well, would have taxed the intellect and the audacity of a 
Westbury. Above all, keep cool— as cool as you can— and remem- 
ber 1 am always at your disposal.” 

The old barrister took an affectionate leave, but he shook his head 
as he went down-stairs. 

” Never had a case so imperfectly stated in my life— not even by 
AVest & Greenall, who never state one at all, but in any case they 
send you all the documents. There is some infernal and unheard of 
mystery behind all this, or else poor George is in a bad way. The 
anxiety, I tear, will prove too much for him. Poor dear old Bar- 
ton!” 

As he stepped across the Temple there was a kind of dry, legal 
moisture in the old barrister’s eyes, which he wiped away with his 
handkerchief. 

Barton, left to himself, paced the room for a long time, buried in 
painful reflections. Recalling with the minutest care every word 
and incident of the interview he had had with the Earl of Selby, he 
tortured his ingenuity in efforts to sound the depths of that great 
tactician's mind. Was not his conduct during that interview^ strange 
and incomprehensible? Was the harshness of his first reception put 
on? Had he really suspected that such a man as his late agent had 
been guilty of embezzlement, and had run away to avoid the con- 
sequences f 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


50 

The young man was inexperienced, and he was hardly able to 
conceive or correctly appreciate the profundity of the cynicism and 
unbelief engendered by tbe long experiences of such a life as that of 
the Earl of Selby— which was not, indeed, one life, but half a dozen 
lives vvrapped in one. So that George Barton could not find ^ny 
excuse for the peer’s acceptance, even for a moment, of the base in- 
sinuations against his father’s motives which had evidently been 
made by Pollard & Pollard. 

Then the earl’s suspicion of him— was it real or pretended? Was 
it not the astute diplomacy of a guilty man, who, to divert suspicion 
from himself, accused his accusers? Again, his affected kindness, 
and the abrupt and strange variations in his manner, his apparent 
anxiety to discredit the idea that the elder Barton had met with any 
foul play, his elaborate sarcasms leveled at the Circus theory, his 
suggestion of suicide, and the anger he exhibited when he discov- 
ered that some one was yet living who knew all that the missing 
agent had known of his — the earl's— weaknesses and wrong-doing? 
And then the sudden change in his tactics toward the close of the 
interview? What did it all mean? The more the young man pon- 
dered and puzzled over it, the more firmly he became convinced 
that Lord Selby knew something of his father’s fate — was an acces- 
sory to the frightful crime by wdiich his mouth had been forever 
silenced. 

But again he shuddered at these awful suspicions which he 
could not repress, at the consequences which loomed up before him 
dark and terrible. He shrunk appalled from the prospect of drag- 
ging this peer before a court of justice, especially when he thought 
of the Selby family, of the I'ilburys, with whom he had been so in- 
timate, who had been so kind and gracious to him from his boy- 
liood; and then one fair face seemed to rise up before him, in the 
bloom of early beauty, and with a form full of grace and charm; 
and eyes were bent upon him which had always seemed to carry in 
their soft, luminous depths the gentle and eternal brightness of the 
stars of heaven. Deep in the heart of this practical young English- 
man there was a world of undiscovered poetry and passion. " But 
when the vision had begun to soothe his soul with its sw'eetness, he 
checked himself and waved it back as if it W’ere an evil spirit, and 
strove to shut his eyes and steel his heart, as, smiling a bitterly sar- 
castic smile at his own weakness and folly, he turned, with a dread 
determination in his face, to somber thoughts of justice and venge- 
ance. 

Thus he had spent more than an hour in painful struggle, wdienhe 
was disturbed by a loud knocking at his outer door, wdiich he had 
closed when Le Breton w^ent out, wuth the hope of discouraging any 
visitors. This one, however, w’as evidently determined to get in, 
and fearing lest he might lose some important intelligence it he neg- 
lected seeing the person who was so importunate, he opened the 
door. 

The Earl of Selby stood before him. 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


51 


CHAPTER V. 

IS IT LOVE — OR A SACRIFICE? 

Blanche Ernestine were the names given by the late Marie, 
Countess of Selby, to an only daughter, who had grown up to be 
one of the most lovely and charming girls in London society. At 
eighteen, with ail the freshness of complexion and firmness of phy- 
sique of the English race added to the easy grace and vivacity ot a 
Frenchwoman, the most brilliant debut of the season had been that 
of Lady Blanche Layton. When she made her reverence to the 
sovereign and kissed her hand, her Majesty, who had known and 
esteemed her mother, was so struck by the fresh loveliness of the 
girl’s face and expression that, in a moment of ‘motherly admiration, 
she drew the young beauty to her, and impressed the customary kiss 
upon her blooming cheek with an emotion which surprised the old- 
est courtiers, accustomed as they were to see the queen manifesting 
the goodness and kindness of the royal heart with all the warmth 
and naimie of an ingenue, unspoiled by the flattery of a court or the 
splendor of her unequaled position. 

The dowagers said that “ Lady Blanche was a little trop atancee,'" 
but that, no doubt, was because she was the daughter of a French 
countess. In the eyes ot the other sex, however, this was an addi- 
tional charm— the combination of lightsome ease with perfect dig- 
nity of manner, the union of wit with ingenuousness being a very 
rare admixture of qualities in an Englishwoman. 

The young Earl of Tilbury, among a host of gallants, had been 
vanquished by the graces of his cousin, graces which he had, more- 
over, special and unfair opportunities ot studying in the intimacy of 
domestic life; ana to the great contentment of the Earl of Selby, 
and also of the Countess of Tilbury, his mother, he had manifested 
a preference for Lady Blanche which was marked and serious. The 
countess, indeed, regarded her niece as a paragon. Lord Selby, who 
was better acquainted than any one else with the state of the young 
earl’s rent-roll, knew that he could nowhere find for his daughter a 
more brilliant match. Other motives may have operated on his 
mind, which this history will disclose; but among them certainly 
w’ere a sincere affection for his ward, and a judicious admiration ot 
qualities which it had been his own duty, as Lord Tilbury’s guardian, 
to study and to cultivate. The young peer did honor to his dis- 
tinguished tutor. The worst ot the fine schemes cherished for their 
two paragons by the noble brother and sister was that one of the 
most important parties, namely, thejmung lady herself, though she 
treated the young earl with most cousinly and familiar affection, 
seemed to regard the idea ot any closer relationship with irreverent 
amusement. She was wont to annoy the earl, her father, by the 
lightness which she permitted herself to display in regard to this 
high question of family policy whenever he tried to approach the 
subject with her in a serious manner. 

“Edward,” she said, referring to Lord Tilbury, “has never 


52 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK". 


spoken to me on sucli matters, and 1 have no right or reason to sup- 
pose he ever will”— the little siuner. ‘‘It ever he should, 1 will 
give him a plain answer, 1 hope he won’t, because he is such a 
jolly fellow, and quite perfect as a cousin. There is time enough, 
you dear, old, troublesome papa, to thinie about those things. Who 
would waltz with me if 1 were engaged? 1 should grow against 
the walls like a melancholy sprig of ivy—” 

” A magnolia,” suggested the earl. 

‘‘ If you prefer it, papa, splendid— but wasting my sweetness. 1 
am young, 1 scarcely know my own heart; but 1 think,” and here 
she would put her head saucily on one side and peer at her father 
through her half-closed lashes—” the man who has made the deep- 
est impression up to this moment is Lord M’Corquodale. He is 
honest and steady and economic and religious— and so very grace- 
ful! And though he is not rich, you miglit get him made a gov- 
ernor-general, you ^ know. Besides, in marrying him one would 
make accounts right with both worlds.” 

The earl's eyes used to sparkle with a strange green light when 
his daughter thus teased him. 

Lord M’Corquodale was a tall, bony Scotch peer, about six feet 
three in height, who loved, on the slightest pretext, to array himself 
in his national costume, and who was at once the amusement of the 
young ladies and the horror of the dowagers. He used to carry 
tracts into society, and slip them surreptitiously into men’s hats or 
ladies’ muffs and bags. Tilbury declared that one of his grooms 
had seen M’Corquodale leading a division of the Salvation Army 
through the streets of the Last End, and singing the tune of a comic 
song to words of pious joviality. No one could have been more 
awkward with greater sincerity than this useful knave of hearts, 
whom Lady Blanche used to play out so thoughtlessly; and he was 
endowed with all the quaint, profound, methodic conceit of his race. 
It really was the case that this young and gaunt Scotch Don Quixote 
had endeavored to manifest, after his fashion, a violent admiration 
for the beauty of the season, though he was only a Caledonian noble- 
man with about six thousand a year. But the earl, who had a keen 
wit, and dearly loved a joke, soon trumped this particular card, for 
he asked M’Corquodale to lunch, and obliged his daughter to spend 
two mortal hours in hearing the English language delivered, in a 
somewhat barbarous shape, over a nutmeg-grater, the torture end- 
ing with the presentation of a small fasciculus of tracts, which he 
said ” were spa-s-shilly adapted to the needs and tastes of moder-rn 
la-adies of culty ar-r.” 

” Now,” said the earl, laughing, wdien his guest had departed, 
” if you will let me know, Blanche, when you'have finished those 
tracts, 1 will ask him to bring a fresh bundle, and a Scotch minister 
to expound them. For you, my dear, 1 am prepared to make any 
sacrifice.” 

” My dear earl, if ever you bring that creature again to lunch, 1 
shall so to bed and send for the queen’s physician. So your lunch 
will cost you dear.” 

But Lady Blanche never mentioned the Scotch peer afterward in 
this connection. Still, the winning of the game appeared to the 
earl to be as far oft as ever. 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 


53 


Au hour after the Earl of Selby had left the Tilbury mansion in 
Orosvenor Place, this young lady presented herself at the door in a 
charming little coupe which her father had given her, and after a 
brief parley with Simpson, who defended the gate manfully, she 
broke through all the defenses, routed Mrs. Collops, and was soon 
sitting in the boudoir with the Countess of Tilbury. 

The countess had been for years one of tire most dignified and 
estimable figures in London society. Though she was not hand- 
some, the pleasing traits of her face, which was full of intelligence, 
her tall and commanding figure, the nobility of her carriage and 
manner, invested her with a distinction which had been recognized 
in many of the most brilliant courts of Europe, and had won the re- 
gard and aflection of her sovereign. She had much of the clever- 
ness, and some of the cynicism, of her brother, without any of his 
malice. In experience and tact she was a thorough woman of the 
world; yet her heart had not been hardened, her natural sympathies 
had not" been dried up by that incessant contact with selfish and 
ignoble passions which an intimate knowledge of society involves. 
That she had prejudices, it would be useless to deny. She was 
aristocratic to the backbone, a conservative of conservatives, and she 
cherished with pride the privileges of rank and wealth. But her 
natural goodness of heart often led her to unbend from these rigid 
notions, and to the surprise of those who knew her best, prompted 
her to acts which appeared to be quite inconsistent with her proud 
and lofty principles. 

When, upon the insistent summons of her niece, she came out of 
her son’s sick-room, and entered” the boudoir, her firm and stately 
features were disordered and careworn. A charming picture indeed 
was that which awaited her, a charming cheek that laid its downy 
freshness against her dry and fevered skin, a charming mouth that 
kissed her on either aide in true French fahion, and a lovely little 
hand that passed its soothing toucli over her hair, abundant, but 
sprinkled with gray, which she was too proud to conceal. But the 
chords of her heart were too tightly strained by anxiety and sorrow 
to allow her to show much expansion under these afi:ectionate fond- 
lings. 

“ My poor Aunt Dora!” said the girl, in a sweet, musical voice; 
” how pale and ill you look! How is he?” 

The countess had borne up through the terrible days and nights 
with iron resolution. She would not allow herself for a moment to 
doubt that her son would recover; but when this simple question 
was put to her by Lady Blanche she suddenly felt as it an arrow had 
gone through her brain, and putting her hands to her head, she said, 
in a voice of anguish, 

“Oh, don’t ask me, my dear. It is simply dreadful. Hot a 
^ord— not a movement since he was carried in there senseless. My 
heart is breaking!” 

She remained for a few moments wdlh her hands clasped over her 
eyes. 

Lady Blanche stood gently stroking the hands that looked so 
white and thin. 

“ Aunt,” she suddenly cried — “ Aunt Dora, can 1 do anything?” 

“ You, dear!” said the countess, letting her hands drop, and look- 


54 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


ing with surprise at her niece, whose face had suddenly grown crim 
son, tvhile her eyes endeavored to brave the scrutiny ot her aunt’s 
gaze. “ Why, child, what can you do?” 

” Couldn’t 1 help you, aunt? ‘Could 1 not come and assist you to 
— nurse him— or do anything to relieve you?” 

A faint smile passed for an instant, like a glint of sunshine from 
a cloud- wrapped sky, across the worn face of the countess, and she 
earnestly examined the sweet, candid features before her, as if to 
read the thoughts that were written in them. A slight thrill of 
pleasure had passed through her spirit, but, as the maiden’s eyes 
fell before her searching glance, her face resumed its troubled aspect. 

” My dear Blanche,” she said, quietly, “ it is very good of you to 
think of it, but what you propose is impossible.” 

“You know 1 am his cousin. Why should 1 not come and help 
you?” 

“ My dear, it is because you are only his cousin that such a thing 
is out of the question. If — if—” The countess hesitated and 
watched the color come and go in her niece’s delicate cheeks. “ No 
matter what I was going to say. 1 was forgetting myself. My poor 
head is quite topsy-turvy! Don’t think anymore about it, my dear. 
AVe have the best assistance, and you could do no good.” 

“But, aunt,” cried tlie girl, with vivacity, “you said ‘if.* 
AYere you not going to say that it— if— he— or rather Edward and 1 
were going to be more than cousins — 1 will out with it— if we were 
engaged— then you would think it rigbt to let me help you in nurs- 
ing him?” 

The blush had deepened in Lady Blanche’s cheeks as she uttered 
these words, and the countess could not help admiring the mingled 
modesty and grace and courage of her niece. But she said, 

“Is this an avowal, Blanche? If it is, no one could be more 
happy to hear it than 1, though God knows whether it may not be 
too late— be only the beginnmg of sorrow for ^-ou. Has he ever 
spoken to you? Has anything serious ever passed between you?” 

Lady Blanche’s long lashes fell over her violet eyes, and her face 
became pale. 

“No, aunt, nothing but fun, you know, little coquetries, but — 
but — I know he likes me.” 

“ Then,” said the countess, with a slight asperity in her voice, 
and some disappointment, and even auger, marked in her features, 
“ what on earth do you mean, dear Blanche? No woman who re- 
spects herself-” 

‘ Stop!” said Lady Blanche, rising, and putting her hand over 
her aunt’s lips. “ Don’t say what you were going to say, please! 
You don’t understand me, my dear Aunt Dora. 1 have too much 
self-respect to throw myself at any one’s head, pa va sans dire. I 
am a Selby. Perhaps 1 am foolish, romantic, but at all events no 
one wdll know ot it but you. Edward has never said a word to me, 
but 1 am a woman, and 1 can tell what he felt and what he was 
longing to say. And— what 1 felt was this— 1 know you will call 
me very silly and romantic, but 1 will confess: ‘ Here is poor Ed- 
ward l5dng betw^een life and death. If he loves me as 1 think he 
does, then, in his weakness and pain, it will be a comfort to him to 
have me there, near him, perhaps it may save his life.’ So, my 


A ^VEEK OE PASSIOX. 


55 

Gear aunt, 1 thought 1 would offer to come and help you, because, 
you see, supposing it were uot as 1 thought, 1 am his cousin, and no 
harm would be done; every one would think it natural tor me to 
come and help you; and if it should turn out to be the other way, 
you know, then 1 should have done my duty, which is to save him, 
ior you, and for his own sake, for he is a good and noble tellow — 
Oh me, what a stupid girl lam!” 

And Lad}’- Blanche, tiirowing herself on her knees, buried her 
face in the ample folds of Lady Tilbury’s gown, and sobbed like a 
. child. 

The countess was greatly moved, felipping off the charming lit- 
tle hat, which Lady Blanche’s grief threatened with destruction, 
she caressed the girl’s hair with her fingers. 

“ Tete folle!’" she said to herself. “ She gets all this exaltation 
from her mother.” Every w^eakness of the fiesh or spirit is traced 
in England to foreigners, even if it be necessary to go back to the 
Conquest for it. ‘‘ Is this love, or a sacrifice V” 

Presently she leaned over and murmured in her niece’s ear, 

” Blanche dearest, tell me, tell me truly, as you would have done 
to your mother, do you really love him? Would you give yourself 
to him body and sbul, with all your heart, if he were w^ell now- 
here, and w’ere to ask you?” 

Blanche trembled. She did not reply. The countess’s face was 
gentle, but a shadow crossed it. 

‘‘ What do you say ?”she asked, a little more decidedly. 

Still no answer. Blanche was trembling more and more. The 
shade deepened on the lace of the countess. 

“ Then,” she said at last, in a deeply disappointed tone— “ then, 
my dear, this was not love, but a sacrifice!” 

“ Aunt,” cried the young lady, suddenly throwing her head back, 
and looking straight into her ladyship’s eyes, “ can’t 3 'ou under- 
stand? 1 am a little goose— 1 know 1 don’t love Edward enough to 
marry him— if he w’ere quite well and out of danger, but to save his 
life and make 3 ’'ou happy, you know— well, don’t you see?— 1 would 
do anything!” 

“You little idiot!” cried the countess, clasping her in her arms 
and Kissing her with an emphasis quite out of harmony with her 
w-onted calm and dignity of manner. “ 1 hare a great mind to take 
you at your word, and make you nurse and marry him— there!” 

” Well, aunt, 1 am quite ready.” 

” But you don’t love him.” 

“lam not in love with him— no. 1 love him— yes, like a brother.” 

“My dear Blanche,” said Lady Tilbury, “this little romance, 
which, let me tell you, was a very absurd and perilous one, shall have 
no denouement. God forbid that you should ever gi ve yourself in mar- 
riage to any one whom you did uot love W’ith all your heart — better, 
let us hope, than you do your ‘ brother ’—Alfred, for instance.” 

There was a little malice in this remark, for the eldest sou of the 
Earl of Selby wav'* by no means a lovable person, and certainly not 
one of Blanche’s favorite heroes. 

“Well, dearest aunt,” said the blushing girl, looking a little 
ashamed, but appealing to the countess with her hands together in 
a pretty gesture, which she, no doubt, also got from her mother, for 


56 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


no English ivoman pure-blooded could have imitated it, “you 
understand me, don’t j’ou? And you will forgive me, won’t you? 
And you will forget all about it and never say a word about it to 
him or to any human being? 1 know 1 can trust you.” 

“ You may, my dear Blanche, implicitly. 1 am not sorry to have 
had this insight into a nature so fresh and romantic. 1 had begun 
to disbelieve in romantic sentiments, except in novels — the world is 
becoming so profoundly practical and scientific, and our young 
ladies so cold and so egoistic. But 1 am afraid, my dear, that 
Madame Letellier let you read too many novels — I must have a talk 
with you about that. There are so few men or women writers 
who seem to have experience of the healthier side of human nature, 
or at least the capacity to describe it. But, good gracious, what is 
that? 1 have been forgetting my dear boy. Alas! we have been 
dreaming, both of us, tor the last twenty minutes. See who is 
knocking at the door.” 

The face of the sedate Mrs. (Jollops appeared, a glitter in her dark 
eyes and a faint smile on her lips. She was evidently excited. 

“ Tour ladyship — your ladyship! He has spoken — he is asking 
for ycu!” 

“ Thank God he is saved!” cried the conntess, rising and running 
to the door. “ Go away, Blanche, immediately. 1 will send a note 
over to-night. Good-by, dear;” and she disappeared in the corridor. 

“You have brought good luck, my lady!” said Mrs. Collops, 
smoothing her big nursing-apron with both hands, and fixing her 
dark eyes, with a curious glint in them, on the beautiful face before 
her, which was moved by a strange \ariety of feelings. 

“ 1 hope so, Mrs. Collops,” said Blanche, suddenly recovering her 
self-possession, and putting on her dignity. “ Will you please come 
with me to the hall door?” 


CHAPTER VI. 

DIA3IOND CUT DIAMOND. 

The earl, when he left the mansion in Grosvenor Place, took his 
seat in a hansom, with a smile on his face. He never allowed a 
servant to surprise his anxieties. He had given the driver the ad- 
dress of bis solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. But as he drove 
down to the lawyers’ quarters, any one who had been close to him 
would have seen, underneath the cool and cynical expression w’hich 
his face usually wore, that some powerful emotions were agitating 
his mind. His eyes lookea dreamy and haggard, his fingers were 
clasped nervously on the handle of his umbrella, his brow was con- 
iracted with thought of an evidently painful character. All this, 
however, did not prevent the practiced man of the world from see- 
ing and saluting many friends on his way down Piccadilly, or from 
detecting and formally recognizing the presence on the pavement 
of the Home Secretary, wlio, catching sight of him, made a sign 
indicating a wish to speak to him. The peer was a little surprised 
at this, for they were not on the same side in politics, and far from 
intimate. His astonishment was greater when Sir Walter Grandi- 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 57 

son, leaning over into the hansom, with a solemn and confidential 
air said, 

“ Earl, have heard anything yet of your missing steward?’ ’ 

“No, Sir "Walter Grandison,” replied the earl, regarding his 
interlocutor with a mixed expression of hauteur and surprise. “ May 
1 venture to ask what is the ground oi tlie interest you take in the 
matter?” 

“ Only,” said the secretary, with a benevolent smile, “ that 1 am 
anxious to spare you unnecessary annoyance. Do you forget that 1 
am practically head policeman? They have taken it into their heads 
in Scotland Yard that the person who was exploded the other day 
in Regent Circus was your agent, whose name, if 1 remember 
rightly, was Barton, and, naturally, they are making every effort 
to ascertain whether there was anything in his position and circum- 
stances to make it probable that some one had an interest in putting 
him out of the way.” 

“ Forgive me. Sir Walter. ” said the peer, with a smile, “ if 1 had 
for the moment forgotten the distinguished official attribution you 
have properly reminded me of; but although 1 am prepared for any- 
thing under a Birmingham government, 1. assume that you are not 
proposing to make an inquisition, in this time and place, in relation 
to my personal responsibility for my agent’s fate?” 

The secretary smiled too. The earl’s manner was not in the least 
offensive. 

“ On the contrary, my dear earl, 1 was going to tell you frankly 
that 1 think the}^ are on the wrong tack; but, you see, 1 can not 
prevent them from following up such clevis as they fancy they 
have, and it occurred to me, on seeing you, that their inquiries 
might cause you and your family considerable inconvenience. Are 
you taking any steps to ascertain what has become of the man? 1 
should sincerely advise you to leave no stone unturned to discover 
his whereabouts without delay, and thus put a stop to this absurd 
inquiry, which, 1 am convinced, is only diverting the energies of 
the police in a false direction. 1 hope you will not consider that 1 
have presumed too far in giving you this friendly hint?” 

“ On the contrary, it is extremely obliging of you, my dear Sir 
Walter,” replied the peer, calmly smiling in the other’s face and 
7 speaking with great cordiality, “to have gone out of your way to 
give me this intimation. There was nothing in my own relations 
■with IMi. Barton to make me at all anxious about any inquiries the 
police may think fit to institute. 1 place myself entirely at their 
service. Still, as you say, no one cares to have private and family 
affairs ripped up before the imblic. 1 happen at this moment to be 
on my w^ay to my solicitors, and 1 will urge them to push for- 
ward their inquiries about Barton’s fate with all the energy they 
can. The whole affair is mysterious and inexplicable. Barton had 
all my confidence, and 1 can conceive of no reason, under any cir- 
cumstances which are known to me, for his running away or being 
murdered. 1 shall alw'ays feel indebted to you for this considerate 
act, the more that you and I so seldom have an opportunity of ex- 
changing courtesies. This is a real kindness.” Smiling again, the 
earl held out his hand and pressed that of the secretary wdth an im- 
pressive ” Thank you-— most sincerely.” 


58 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 


As the hansom drove off, the smile died away, and the peer’s face 
became longer and thinner. The Home Secretary went off, too, with 
a smile of satisfaction. He felt that he had done a friendly act. 
Whether it were a judicious one w\as a question on which we should 
like to have had Mr. Sontag’s opinion. It certainly was not judi- 
cial. He had given a Valuable hint to the peer if be really had any- 
thing to fear from the curiosity of the police, one that he certainly 
would not have given to a less distinguished man. It was true that, 
after having sifted Mr. Sontag’s theory with some care, the Home 
Secretary had pronounced it to be “ moonshine,'’ but in warning 
the eail, he was not giving the chief detective a fair chance, and as 
it afterward turned out, this little iucideiu was the means of con- 
veying to the principal criminals a premature hint of the discover- 
ies w’hich had been made. 

When the earl entered the private rooms occupied by the partners 
in the offices of JMessrs. Pollard & Pollard, whose immense business 
filled every room in No. 155, the large old mansion in Lincoln’s 
Inn Fields which had once been the residence of a chief- justice, he 
found them engaged in close conference. A large tin box— marked 
'‘Estate of the Bt. Hon. the Earl of Tilbury, K. G., dec’d’’ —\a.y 
open on the floor, disclosing a portentous array of papers. The faces 
of both the partners were flushed. They appeared to have been hav- 
ing an agitated discussion. The earl, whose susceptibility was very 
delicate, promptly appreciated this fact, and his appreciation was 
confirmed by the tone of their voices when they spoke. 

The senior partner, Mr. Joseph Pollard, was a middle-aged stout 
man, of medium height, with a broad, rather plebeian face, thick 
but firm lips, short-cut, grisly hair, bristling above a square fore- 
head, and brush-like whiskers of the same character. His gray eyes 
were bright and prominent. He was short-sighted, wearing power- 
ful glasses in a golden-rimmed pince-nez. His lower face, closely 
shaven, was full, and the chin heavy, indicating animal, but not 
moral doggedness. The junior partner, nephew of the senior, was 
strikingly different from his relative. He wes dark, tall, and thin, 
with rather fine-cut features, black hair and eyes, and an alert, fop- 
pish manner. Moreover, he was fashionably and carefully dressed, 
while the elder partner wore a coat of somewhat ancient cut, and 
exhibiting a tendency to polish which would have been more in 
keeping on the surface of a mahogany table. Mr. Charles Pollard 
was ihe gentleman of the partnership, its ornamental as w^ell as use- 
ful member, and usually had to discharge the duty of interviewing 
arisocratic clients, of wWn a large number were to be found in the 
long list of the firm’s clientele. The house had existed for four gen- 
erations, having originated with two brothers, and being still en- 
tirely a family business. The early death of a brother, Mr. Samuel 
Pollard, had brought his son upon the scene as a principal some- 
what more prematurely than w'as consistent with the historic ante- 
cedents of the firm. In the effusive respect with which these two 
received the earl, his quick eye detected a certain mixture of de- 
fiance and embarrassment. They had evidently been talking about 
him, and about business which concerned him. 

“ Your lordship has come in quite dprcjjos,” said the younger of 
the two, who was easier and more talkative than his uncle, and who 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


59 


liked to interlard his conversation with a few French phrases he had 
picked up at hap-hazard, for his father had not done him justice in 
his education. At sixteen, after passing through a dissenting school 
in Stoke Newington, where French was regarded with suspicion as 
a key to much ungodly literature, he had been put to training in the 
office. “ We have just been having a very anxious conference in 
regard to the state of your lordship’s affairs. You have, of course, 
perused the advertisement?” 

” “^Yhat advertisement?” inquired the earl, with vivacity. 

“ In the morning newspapers, my lord, relating to Mr. Barton.” 

” No,” said the peer, with an anxiety which was not affected, and 
which proved that George Barton’s suspicion in this respect had 
been unfounded. ” Who has been advertising? and about what?” 
His tone was peremptory and insolent. 

” My lord,” returned the younger Pollard, shrinking from the 
firm glance the peer had fixed on him, and convinced that his client 
was speaking candidly, ” in a conference which — ah — my partner 
and 1 had together yesterday, with regard to the— ah— very unpleas- 
ant state of — ah— your affairs, and in connection especially with this 
mysterious disappearance of— ah— Mr, Barton, we came to the con- 
clusion that it would— it might, my lord ” — he looked at the earl 
with a subjective meaning in his glance, which seemed to puzzle the 
latter for an instant — ” be discreet, 1 might say a good coup, for us 
— your lordship, you know, and ourselves— to appear on the scene, 
and evince some anxiety to discover the whereabDuts of your late — 
1 meant to say of Mr. Barton.” 

‘‘Certainly. Why not? That is precisely what 1 came here to 
urge you to use every effort to discover.” 

Mr. Joseph Pollard moved uneasily in his chair. 

” So, my lord,” continued Mr. Charles, ‘‘ we drew up this adver- 
tisement, which we supposed would have met your lordship’s eye.” 
He took up a newspaper from the table. 

The earl, with a nervous movement, snatched it out of the solic- 
itor’s hand, and ran his eyes over it in a couple of seconds. His 
face expressed a vivid dissatisfaction. 

” I wish, gentlemen,” he said, with some asperity, “you would 
consult me before you lake important action like this in my name 
and concerning my affairs.” 

” Well, m}-^ lord,” said the elder Pollard, who had been sitting 
silently watching the peer through his glasses, and now spoke with 
a suppressed defiance in his tone, ” as the matter is in our hands, 
and to some extent— 1 must remind your lordship— concerns us 
jointly, we thought we might take the not very important step we 
have done without troubling your lordship.” 

There was a curiously significant undertone in the slow, deliberate 
utterance of the speaker which struck the earl unpleasantly. He 
glanced quickly from one to the other, and for a moment his wonted 
hardiness and aplomb appeared to have forsaken him— he even low- 
ered his eyes under the glassy stare of the attorney. But he recov- 
ered himself instantly. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, in a cold, stern voice, “circumstances 
have, to some extent — as Mr. Joseph Pollard has expressed — placed 
me in rather disagreeable co-relations with you, in a matter which 


60 


A WEEK OE PASSIOK. 


concerns my character and position, and also implicates yours. \ou 
are aware of the anxiety this has given me. You are also witnesses 
of my readiness to mane any sacrifice to extricate mj^self from the 
compromising position into which 1 was drawn— 1 must say it— by 
my faith in your ability to carry out engagements which you per- 
sonally entered into with me, which engagements, unfortunately, 
you have been unable lo fulfill. 1 have the c'onviction that, if 1 un- 
happily allowed myself to drift into a situation in which my honor, 
a large portion of my fortune, and my position in society are im- 
periled, it was owing, in no small degree, lo misplaced confidence 
in your power and willingness to carry me through. 1 assure you 1 
do not forget that, in a moment of acute pressure, 1 allowed myself 
to be associated with you m that which was dishonorable and crim- 
inal!” 

He put an emphasis on the last word both by voice and look. 

“ Your lordship had full knowledge of all the circumstances,” 
said Mr. Pollard the younger, interrupting him, rather weakly, for 
the earl had already’' admitted it. “We have all the proofs here in 
writing, it it is necessary to appeal to them.” And he pointed with 
a long, bony finger, the aspect of which struck the susceptible peer 
at the moment with a chilling sensation, to the great tin box lying 
upon the floor with its lid thrown back, and showing, that if quan- 
tity were enough in documentary evidence to render it unimpeacha- 
ble, there was no deficiency in this case. The earl involuntarily 
threw a glance at the box and its contents, which the worthy part- 
ners had evidently been overhauling, and a slight tremor passed for 
an instant through his frame; but he turned again, with a lively 
look toward Mr. Charles Pollard, and said, 

‘‘1 had, sir — 1 own it— and it is neither to my credit— nor to 
yours!” 

The two legal gentlemen shrugged their shoulders, and turned out 
their palms, and gazed at each other with that sort of astonishment 
which might have been expressed by the gestures of two angels, into 
whose fair faces some sinner whom they had been trying to save 
had thrown a gross injury. Was this the kind of gratitude they 
were to receive for their self-abnegation — for having compromised 
themselves to rescue this peer of the realm from a" perilous situa- 
tion? 

” We have served your lordship with only too much devotion,” 
said the elder Pollard, in a melancholy voice, ” and hence the awk- 
W’ard situation in which we find ourselves placed. Y'our lordship 
probably deems it of little importance that our professional reputa- 
tion and the future of our families are in serious peril?” 

Lord Selby could hardly repress a smile at the tragic solemnity 
with which Mr. Joseph Pollard uttered these words. The humor 
passed away in a moment, and he turned and looked curiously at 
the speaker. 

‘‘ 1 don’t quite see,” he said, ” how the situation has been made 
any more serious tor you by anything that has lately happened.” 

” Y"our lordship knows that it is a criminal matter for both your- 
self and us, if the facts should ever be allowed to transpire,” said 
Mr. Charles Pollard, his dark eyes sparkling with a malevolent ex- 
pression. 


A WEEK OF PASSIOFT. 


61 

“ Possibly,” said the earl, ” though 1 do not think that those con- 
cerned would be likely to treat it as such. My preoccupation, Mr. 
Pollard, unlike yours, has not been to save myself from a criminal 
process, or from the legal consequences of my own wrong and fool- 
ish acts. If 1 have been anxious, at whatever sacrifice, to have that 
unfortunate affau settled, it is because 1 have deeply and sincerely 
regretted the course 1 took; it is because a disclosure would wound 
a number of innocent and honorable relatives and friends, whose 
good^ opinion I should lose forever if they came to know of my 
criminal weakness; it is because 1 would save others from a great 
unhappiness, and not alone, 1 hope, from the selfish motive of ex- 
tricating myself from an odious position.” 

The earl had risen, and delivered these words with force and 
spirit. 

The partners were evidently disconcerted by the high tone adopt- 
ed toward them by the man who owned to having been concerned 
with them in a questionable, or, as he termed it, a “criminal” 
transaction. His attitude was unexpected; it dislocated some line 
of action on which they had previously settled. Each looked at the 
other, as if to inquire what card he was to play in the new circum- 
stances of the game. Mr. Charles Pollard, however, answered the 
earl, 

“ Well, my lord,” he said, blandly, “ is not this precisely the ob- 
ject we have in view? We always thought that your lordship ex- 
aggerated the importance of the bearings of that transaction. Keither 
we nor you had any criminal intention. The object simply was to 
save you from inconvenience and a great loss. All would have gone 
well but for the intervention of Mr. Barton in the business, and his 
becoming cognizant of facts which need never have gone further 
than your lordship and ourselves. In some aspects of the case, his 
— ah — disappearance, to whatever circumstances it may be due, is — 
do .you not think? — a distinct relief We have nothing now to do 
but to complete the arrangements which will secure the burial of the 
matter in oblivion.” 

“ My partner is quite right,” said Mr. Joseph Pollard. “ We are 
all three in the same boat; the question is how we can best extricate 
ourselves from the difficult position in which we are placed.” 

Something like an electric shock w^ent through the peer’s body at 
these blunt words. His face assumed an extraordinary expression, 
in which shame, revolted pride, and diplomatic caution seemed to 
be struggling for mastery. He, the tenth earl, and one of the 
proudest and most eminent of the English aristocracy, “in the 
same boat ” with a couple of vulgar attorneys! The splendor and 
honor of his peerage, his supremacy in politics and society, his own 
personal character, and his immense fortune, thrown into the same 
scale with the interests of a couple of money-grubbing solicitors! 

Such a thought flashed across his mind, but he w'as abler than 
either of his interlocutors, a diplomatist of the first order, with all 
the advantages of social superiority, fie summoned all his forces. 
Something told him the moment w'as critical. Even in this base 
association he had a moral supremacJ^ Even in this iniquitous 
combination the superiority of his rank and social position asserted 
itself. 


A WEEK or PASSIOK. 


62 

“Mr. Pollard/' he replied, calmly, but with a sarcastic intona- 
tion, “ if wc are, as you say, sir, ‘ all in the same boat,’ will you at 
least, then, permit me, as the owner of the boat, to take the helm? 
i confess 1 am puzzled to make out what lias brought on this un- 
pleasant discussion. 1 made the very simple remark that the step 
you had taken in advertising in such terms tor poor Barton was one 
you ought not to have taken without consulting me. 1 do not ap- 
prove of it; 1 do not see the object of it; 1 think it ill-advised. The 
more 1 reflect upon it, the less do 1 feel inclined to accept your 
theory of Barton’s disappearance. At first, when I was annoyed at 
his absence and the singular loss of the bonds, 1 hastily adopted 
your suggestion— 1 feared that something had gone wrong in his ac- 
counts. J^ow 1 doubt it. Why, at the very moment when he so 
mysteriously disappeared, what was he doing? He was engaged 
with you in trying to raise the money to wipe out the record ot a 
compromising transaction for which he was not responsible. Why 
should he disappear?’’ 

“It is sometimes very difficult,” said the elder Pollard, judi- 
ciously, “ to imagine the motives that have led a man to criminal or 
questionable conduct. JVlr. Barton was your agent for twenty five 
years. You have probably never examined his accounts.” 

“ At his own request they have been audited every year by Twy- 
ford--one of the best auditors in England.” 

“ VT ell, but, earl, you forget. The bonds—” 

“■Very well, Mr. Pollard, the bonds. What could he do with 
them— it he had them? We have the numbers. You know they 
are not negotiable without extreme peril of detection, Wliat on 
earth would he carry off those documents foi ? And that brings me 
to this advertisement. It is impolitic for two reasons. First, before 
making public the fact that my agent had disappeared, it would 
surely have been well to exhaust all the resources of the police and 
private detective agencies. Secondly, the form of the advertisement 
is objectionable. Y'ou offer to exhibit a list of the missing docu- 
ments! This is inconceivable folly. Y'ou risk an exposure of the 
very fact we are desirous of concealing. No one knows of the ex- 
istence of the charge on my sister’s property except ourselves. Y'ou 
remember she was asked not to say anything about it to her son, on 
the ground that, it was only a temporary loan to meet some unex- 
pected call on his estates.” 

The two solicitors remained silent and embarrassed. 

“ Now%” pursued the earl, “ allow me to request an explanation. 
It was arranged before 1 left London for feelby that Barton should 
hand you over those documents and papers. 1 thought he had done 
so. If he did not, it must have been because some difficulties had 
arisen between him and yourselves with regard to the terms of that 
arrangement. What were those difficulties? and where are those 
papers?” 

Speaking with a good deal of energy and vivacity, and as if ne 
were a judge interrogating an unwilling witness, rather than an ac- 
complice in confeience with his fellow-conspirators, the earl, as he 
put this last question, stretched out his hand toward the senior part- 
ner, and his eye penetrated him with a fire and keenness that might 
well have shaken his professional stolidity. He had been sitting 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


63 

before Lord Selby with his head between bis shoulders, and his two 
fat hands clasped together in a lump on his solid paunch. When 
this query, aimed at him like a rocket, suddenly burst upon him he 
started. His glasses turned interrogatively to his nephew, who, with 
a nervous movement of his head, threw an uneasy glance at his 
uncle. 

The earl surprised this exchange of looks. 

“ 1 say again, Mr. Pollard, where are they?” 

“My lord,” said the younger of the ttvo solicitors, ‘‘you will 
have observed the advertisement says—” 

‘‘ D — n the advertisement, sir,” "interrupted the earl, raising his 
voice, and speaking in a fury. ‘‘ The advertisement pretends that 
Mr. Barton still has thoje documents, which it had been agreed — 
settled — should be given up to you, and, as 1 had every reason to 
suppose, had been placed in your hands. In fact, this morning, 
by pure hazard a few minutes before 1 came here, 1 had an inter- 
view with young George Barton, who, 1 can tell you, is a youth of 
surprising ability, and by no means to he trifled with. He is re- 
solved to sift the whole business to the bottom. Mr. George Bar- 
ton, junior, then informed me that his father had handed you all 
the documents — had taken your receipt for them; a receipt which 
his son perused, and of which, 1 believe, he has a copy. That re- 
ceipt, I understand, was dated on the previous Saturday or Monday.” 

The partners looked at one another, and at the earl, with un- 
feigned astonishment. 

‘‘ Young Barton's ability seems only to be surpassed,” said old 
Mr. Pollard, ” by his father’s indiscretion and want of good faith. 
He has evidently shown to bis son a paper which he was bound by 
professional honor, and by his duty and obligations to you, to keep 
secret. This throws a good deal of light on his character. 1 con- 
fess 1 am deeply disappointed to hear this of him.” 

‘‘ Never mind George Barton’s character just now% Mr. Pollard,” 
said the earl,’ coolly. “Was there such a receipt in existence?” 

“My lord, this was precisely one of the matters on which we 
were going to speak to you,” replied Mr. Pollard, “it it had not 
been prematurely brought forward in this— ah— somewhat unpleas- 
ant manner. There was such a receipt, and we regretted to have 
discovered only this morning, that, in our blind confidence in Mr. 
Barton, W’e had carelessly omitted to ask him to return it to us when 
we handed him back the papers.” 

“ You handed him back the papers!” cried the earl, not attempt- 
ing to conceal the incredulity of his look and tone. 

“Yes,” replied Mr, Joseph Pollard, calmly gazing at the peer 
through his spectacles, “ it is perfectly true; although it was a 
matter wiiicli ought not, under any circumstances. Lord Selby — • 
under— any — circumstances wiiatever — to hav'e been confided to a 
young man quite disconnected from the business, and apparently 
quite lacking in discretion, since he should have addressed himself 
to us, and not to you, it he had any communications to make re- 
garding it. 1 say it is perfectly correct that Mr. Barton brought 
those papers here— on Friday or Saturday, 1 think—” said Mr. Jo- 
seph, with the air of a man whose memory was too valuable to be 
charged with a matter of small importance— 


64 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


“ Monrlay/’ said My. Charles, nodding. 

“Ah! Monday. Well, perhaps you aie right; whenever it was, 
the documents were received, and a receipt was given for them in 
the usual form. The documents, 1 think, weie placed in our sate, 
Joseph?” 

“ They were — awaiting the earl’s return.” 

“ Precisely, to await your lordship’s return. On the afternoon, 
however, of Tuesday — the 25th — ” 

“Tuesday the 25th,” assented the nephew, like a tenor in an 
operatic duet. 

“ Mr. Barton called here. He seemed agitated and out of Sorts, 
and permitted himself to use some observations as to the part which 
w^e had taken in these affairs, which we considered to be extremely 
unprofessional — ” 

“ A.nd offensive,” put in the nephew. 

“ And offensive — as my partner justly observes. 1 think, Charles, 
we were rather struck by his curious manner, and remarked upon it 
after he had left?” 

“ We w’ere,” chimed in Mr. Charles. 

The duet, having started so well, was running on merrily. By 
his deliberation and this little by-pla}’’, Mr. Joseph had mana'ged to 
convey to Mr. Charles the cue to the song that was to be sung. 

“ We don’t know what had aroused his suspicions, or w'hether 
he was out of sorts; perhaps the extraordinary amount of work, 
and anxiety he had undergone during the past few weeks had 
affected his brain— country praciitioners are not accustomed to the 
sort of pressure which London solicitors are forced to endure every 
day— and he threw out a hint — ’’ 

“ A very broad hint,” said Mr. Joseph. 

“ That he had been premature in imparting those documents io 
us before all the arrangements had been completed, and especially 
as he had only 3 ’our verbal and not j'our written instructions to 
hand them over. We were a little as'tonished by this line, but of 
course we immediately took the papers out of the safe and handed 
them to him. He placed them in his bag, and w’^e never saw’- them 
again. It was this which increased, in our view’, the suspiciousness 
of Mr. Barton’s disappearance.” 

“ And the receipt?” said the earl, who had been listening to all 
this in perfect silence, while he closely w’atched the faces of the two 
speakers—” what became of the receipt?” 

“Lhe truth is,” said young Mr. Pollard, with a smile, “we 
never thought of the receipt. It was my fault. But in any case 
we should not have regarded it as a matter of much consequence. 
It was outside the bounds of probability that both Mr. Barton and 
’ the documents would disappear.” 

“ And supposing that young Barton should affirm that his father 
did not bring back the bag of papers to the Temple, where he was 
staying with his, son, what would be your theory?” inquired the 
earl, who appeared to be satisfied with their explanation. 

“ Really, my lord,” said Mr. Joseph Pollard, with an ingenuous 
smile, “ we are quite unable to form any theory about a disappear- 
ance which is so mj’sterious. I don’t suppose Mr. Barton would 
take those documents to the Temple at all. He ought, 1 presume. 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


65 


to have deposited them at your bankers. "NTe thought so at least, 
and we accordingly inquired on your behalf, and you remember 
we reported to you that they were not in their hands.” 

“ That is true,” said the earl, struck by this remark. “ In that 
case Barton should have taken the papers to the bankers. It is in- 
explicable. You did not mention to me before, by the way, this 
agitation in Barton’s manner of which you now speak, and the 
words that had passed between you.” 

” The truth is, my lord, that since this unfortunate disappear- 
ance, and what with our other anxieties and the perilous condition 
of the Earl of Tilbury, we have hardly had time to consider the ex- 
act bearing of these little circumstances upon the mystery of Mr. 
Barton’s conduct. "We intended to have told you of this to-day. Of 
course, it may be unimportant, but, on the other hand, it may help 
to throw some light on the mystery.” 

” It may,” said the peer, thoughtfully. “ George Barton had one 
of the hardest heads 1 ever saw, but of late he nas been fearfully 
worried and overworked. By the way,” he added, suddenly recol- 
lecting himself, ” 1 met the Home Secretary on my way here. He 
is an obliging person, aud seems to be proud of his connection with 
the control of thcj police — he amused me by calling himself the 
* head-policeman.’ It apears the detectives in Scotland Yard have 
taken the crazy notion into their heads that the victim of that 
strange calamity in Regent Circus, which iiad such dire results for 
poor Tilbury, was none other than Barton.” 

The two partners started, and their faces grew pale, whether with 
consternation or liorror or surprise it was impossible to distinguish. 

“ George Barton!” they cried in chorus. “Ridiculous!” 

“ Ridiculous, as you say. And, it true, one of the most astound- 
ing marvels in the chapter of accidents which the world has ever 
witnessed. George Barton himself dying in this extraordinary way, 
and nearly killing at the same time a peer, the accounts of whose 
estates he was engaged in winding up. Such a fortuitous concourse 
of circumstances would be without parallel even in fiction— outside 
the ‘ Thousand antf One Nights ’ or ‘ Baron Munchausen!’ Still, 
they are not without grounds for their suspicion. Toung Barton is 
so persuaded of the truth of it that he has put on mourning, and 1 
nm satisfied he is sincere. They have hit upon some very singular 
and striking coincidences. George Barton tells me he is prepared to 
swear that the hand found on the roof in Oxford Street is that of 
his father. It seems my agent had some special deformity in the 
little finger of his right hand, though for all the years 1 knew him 1 
had never noticed it. The young man showed me that he also has a 
similar peculiarity inherited from the father. Again, the police 
have found a minute particle of a watch-dial, with lettering similar 
to that on a watch 1 gave to Mr. Barton myself— one of Frod- 
sham’s. These facts are very curious, to say the least of it.” 

The partners smiled in a somewhat constrained manner, and the 
nephew remarked, 

“ They are always finding mare’s nests in Scotland Yard. It is 
Vi. repertoire oi them.” 

The peer was too preoccupied to notice the peculiarity of Mr. 
Charles Pollard’s solecisms. 

3 


66 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


“ Of course,” lie continued, “ the idea is absurd. Baitoii was 
not a man to commit suicide, unless he had gone clean mad.” 

“ He may Jiave done— he may have done!” said the elder Pol- 
lard, shaking his head with great solemnit 5 \ ” In these days of 
high pressure there is no accounting for the aberrations of intel- 
lect.” 

While the junior member threw a glance of admiration at his 
partner, the peer pursued his reflections, regardless of Mr. Pollard’s 
philosophical apothegms. 

” Be may have fallen into some ambush,” said the earl. ” At 
all events, gentlemen” — and here his voice grew more incisive, and 
arrested tlieir attention — ‘‘you will be good enough to direct all 
your practical skill and ingenuity to the solution of the question at 
once— What has become of him? The police will commence au 
immediate inquiry into Barton’s recent movements and transac- 
tions. it they come to me, 1 shall feel obliged to give them at least 
a general outline of the facts.” 

” But, my lord, surely—” cried each of the partners, in undis- 
guised alarm. 

‘‘ Stop!” cried the earl; ‘‘ 1 shall not needlessly betray anything 
it is our — ‘ joint and several ’ interest, 1 think you would call it? — 
not to divulge— but in the interests of justice, and to spare the 
memory of an honorable man from defamation, 1 certainly should 
not hesitate, if it were absolutely necessary, to sacrifice myself.” 

‘‘ And us!” said Mr. Joseph Pollard, in a deep, indignant voice. 
‘‘Take care, my lord, what you do. Aou will never be able to 
hold up your head again if you disclose the transaction with Lady 
Tilbury, and the delicate affairs upon which Mr. Barton was en- 
gaged. 1 respect! ully submit that you have no right to betray our 
confidence. If you have no regard for yourself, we are entitled to 
some consideration at your hands. If you do that, you will under- 
stand that we shall not hesitate to use every possible means to pro- 
tect ourselves.” 

” AVhat consideration, sir?” said the earl, coldly and sternly,, 
offended at the menace. ‘‘ 1 have had to rue bitterly the conse- 
quences of my relations with you. It was your evil suggestion 
which, working on my weakness in an hour of acute crisis, led me 
to be guilty of an act which 1 would now cut off my right hand — 
nay, sacrifice my life, to have undone and wiped out of the record 
of my existence!” 

Mr. Charles Pollard, alarmed at the rising storm, hastened to in- 
tervene. 

‘‘ My uncle has been a little hasty, my lord. 1 am sure he did 
not mean to oftend you. He evidently mistook your intentions. Of 
course it is only in the last resort that you would feel it necessary 
to afford any compromising particulars to the police. 1 don’t see 
that such a necessity can ev^er arise. If it did, we should be tiie first 
to join you in helping to clear the memory of Mr. Barton. It 
seems to me— you will forgive me tor saying so — that instead of dis- 
puting about the course to be taken, we should be much more use- 
fully employed in considering how we can utilize the absence of 
Mr. Barton to complete the settlement we had arrived at, and free 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 67 

your lordship’s mind from any turtlier anxiety about the transac- 
tion which has given your lordship so much pain.” 

” In ‘utilizing the absence of Mr. Barton,’ ” replied the peer, 
•with sarcastic emphasis, ” let it at least be understood that, unless 
indubitable evidence of his wrong-doing is forthcoming, we shall on 
no account, through any reticence on our part, leave a tarnish on 
the reputation of an honest man. You see, gentlemen,” he added, 
bitterly, “ 1 have become suddenly virtuous — which perhaps aston- 
ishes you— and new converts are apt to be exaggerated in their en- 
thusiasm. However, 1 have said all 1 wish to say —go on with the 
settlement of that business. 1 believe you have prepared the draft 
of the Kensington mortgage. As soon as yon can get it engrossed 1 
will execute the deed. And leave no stone unturned, 1 beg of you, 
to solve the fate of George Barton. 1 must wish you good-day.” 

As he turned his back to go to the door the two partners, whose 
faces were vividly pale and troubled, exchanged a glance. 

“ But, my lord,” said the senior, who stood nervously passing his 
hands over each other in the invisible soap-washing manner, ” sup- 
posing it should — unhappily — turn out — that the individual — who — 
who came to so untimely an end in the Circus was Mr, Barton, what 
would your lordship— ah— feel it to be our duty to do?” 

‘‘In that case,” replied the earl, suddenly turning round — he had 
been lislening to the speaker half over his shoulder— and fixing his 
strange, inscrutable, but most scrutinizing glance on Mr. Pollard, 
” 1 should authorize the chief commissioner to offer in my name 
a reward of £2,000 tor the discover 3 ’' of the murderer; for to sup- 
pose George Barton to be going about I^ondon with a pot of nitro- 
glycerine or a dynamite cartridge in his pocket, when he was never 
known to handle a gun because of his horror of gunpowder, is as 
incredible as to suppose he is hiding in the moon.” 

The way out of the sanctum led through an outer office in which 
a number of clerks were at work. Mr. Charles Pollard accompanied 
the earl to the door, showing him an exaggerated politeness, and 
afiecting to exchange with him familiar observations about the state 
of the crops. Tliis little by-play, intended to impress his clerks 
with his importance, was unfortunately not so effective as he sup- 
posed, havinar long been seen through by those acute and irreverent 
observers. 

“ There is ‘ Charlie,’ putting on all the side he can with old Sel- 
by,” wnispered a sucking attorney in articles to an old clerk at his 
side, who w^as drafting a statement of case for counsel. 

The other nodded with a subdued smile, but did not reply. He 
had been thirty years sitting at the same desk, and duriiig that 
period had had time to reflect on the golden virtue of silence. But 
he was none the less observant. His sharp eye had taken in the ex- 
pression on the earl’s face, and on that of Mr. Charles, as they 
emerged from that inner room facetiously termed ” the dock,” 
among the minor clerks; his trained ear had caught some false notes 
in his employer’s voice. As the latter passed again on his return, 
this curious person managed to glance at him, unnoticed, from 
under his shaggy eyebrows. He saw a strange pallor in his face, 
and marked the drawn-down corners of his smooth-shaven lips. 

“ There is certainly something queer in the wind about this Bar- 


68 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


ton business,” was the old man's reflection, but lie did not make 
any ot his companions a party to his thoughts. A moment after, 
the door beliind which Charles Pollard had vanished opened again, 
and his head reappeared. 

“ Mr. Grayson?” 

The old man started, rose, and entered the room. Both the part- 
ners were there. 

. ” Shut the door, Mr. Grayson. You are our oldest clerk, Mr. 
Grayson, and we are going to give you a proof of our confidence in 
your discretion. Lord Selby has just gone out. You know him 
well. Be has dismissed his hansom and is walking along the south 
side of the fields in the direction of Lincoln’s Inn. It is imnortant 
for us to know where he is going to. Take this brief, which will 
serve as an excuse for your going out, to Mr. Huxtable’s chambers. 
Do not leave the earl till you see him inside some door, and take a 
note of it. Take a hansom if it should be necessary to follow him 
up— here is ten shillings. Be cautious, please, and don’t return 
without the information, and, understand again, this is strictly" se- 
cret service.” 

When the clerk had gone out the two solicitors threw themselves 
into their chf^irs and looked at each other. ]\Ir. Joseph Pollard was a 
naturally perspiring man; Mr. Charles’s thin frame and substance 
did not lend itself to melting moods, but tiiere was a damp secretion 
on either brow, and their shirts were clinging to their skin as if they 
had had a tough pull against the stream. And so they had. It had 
rather overcome them; neither of them spoke for a while. The least 
thoughtful spoke first. 

” Well,” lie said, did you ever hear of such a thing?” 

“ 1 confess I’m astonished!” said the other. “ 1 can’t understand 
what has come over him. Be is no longer the same man. He 
seemed the other day, at the first blush, rather relieved than other- 
wise by Barton’s— hem! — disappearance, but, Charlie, 1 tell you his 
present frame of mind is — dangerous.” 

Mr. Pollard emphasized this by clicking his lips together in a 
manner he had when he wished to be decided. 

They were silent again for a tew seconds. 

“We did all we could, 1 think?” said Mr. Charles. 

“ Everything. But he ran away from us the first moment,” said 
Mr. Joseph. 

“ Uncle Joseph, 1 never saw you more masterly — that explanation 
about the papers was worthy of a diplomat— quite d la TaUei/wncj,” 

“ 1 only wish it were trueV’ sighed Uncle Joseph. “ I tell you, 
Charlie, it’s no use concealing it; things look pretty serious. This 
disclosure of the receipt to young Bai ton looks blue. Supposing- 
the old man had told him everything?” 

“ Oh, surely he couldn’t have done that!” cried the more viva- 
cious partner, with a start, and a look of terror in his face. 

“We never know what to expect in this world!” said the other,, 
with a groan. “ 1 tell you, Charlie, until we can satisfy ourselves 
to the contrary, we must act upon ihe assumption that he did. We 
must be ready for anything. Is that yacht arranged for?” 

“ Everything settled— bought in the name of' Yates— you know 
that confidential friend of mine. She is lying ofl; Gravesend, ready 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 69 

to get up steam any moment, and the crew can be relied on for many 
reasons.” 

* * * * * * 

The earl walked along with his usual stately deliberation. He 
passed through Lincoln’s Inn, down Chancery Lane, and through 
the gate- way of the Middle Temple. In King’s Bench AValk he 
examined the names which, like creeping plants, cover the walls of 
the grimy entrances with a deciduous growth. At length he selected 
a staircase, and leisurely mounted. Grayson cautiously followed, 
and saw him, after knocking lor some time, admitted into the 
chambers on the top floor, on the door of which was inscribed the 
name of “ Mr. George Barton.” 

Before he returned and gave his report, the partners were busily 
engaged in their ordinary affairs. On hearing the news the two 
lawyers exchanged a glance of consternation, of which Mr. Grayson 
took a quiet mental note. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A nOKRIULE SUSPICION. 

Nothing could have been more imvrelcome to George Barton the 
younger than the apparition of the Earl of Selby at the door of his 
chambers. He was so taken aback by it that, all hough he had sworn 
to himself that he w'ould control his feelings, would play a profound 
game, conceal his suspicions and pursue the end he had in view in 
such a manner as not to give any inkling of his object, he w^as una- 
ble for the moment to hide his surprise and trouble. 

The earl read bis face correctly, but took no outward notice. He 
put out his hand, with an air of mingled seriousness and affability, 
and walked into the antechamber with the assurance of a welcorne 
friend. 

“ Are you alone?” he inquired, glancing rapidly around, as if to 
interrogate the walls and doors. 

“ 1—1 am quite alone, my lord,” replied young Barton, coldly. 
“ May 1 ask your lordship to come into my room?” 

The earl entered the room, while Barton shut the outer door, and 
the latter, following his visitor, said suddenly, in a voice which quiv- 
ered with emotion, while he pointed to an empty chair drawn up at 
a table standing near the window, 

” My lord, it was there, sitting in that chair, ihal 1 last saw my 
father!” 

The peer, who had been about to lake that chair, for the reason 
that it would enable him to sit with his back to the light, and thus 
to watch the young man’s face, for he had come to have a serious 
and critical interview with him, started, turned aw^ay, and sunk into 
an arm-chair that happened to be near. George Burton’s eyes were 
fixed upon him with a curious expression, but, though a slight flush 
passed over the earl’s cheek, his face showed nothing but pain and 
sympathy, and his eyes steadily returned the young man’s gaze, 
it is one of the penallies of being an accompli.ehed cynic tluit one’s 
gravest and most sincere moments of effusion are those which others 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


TO 

ure the least inclined to believe in. Barton assumed ihat the earl 
was acting:, and admitted himself that he did it to perfection. 

“1 can imagine your sorrow and desolation, George,” he said, 
gently, ‘‘ and, believe me, 1 sympathize with you. My own 
anxieties are not small, and they have even become critical since 
your father’s disappearance. 1 am quite thrown off my balance. 
In my trouble and surprise at seeing you this morning, 1 must have 
seemed hard and unsympathetic. I feel sensible of it, and hence 
my visit, wnich 1 trust you will not take as ill-timed and unwel- 
come. It is important for both of us that we should understand and, 
it possible, help each other. We must liave an explanation— the 
sooner the better.” 

” Quite so, my lord,” said George Barton, dryly. 

He was standing with one hand on the table, on which he leaned 
nervously. 

” Do you think 5mu could bear it now?” said the earl. “You 
look troubled and fatigued. 1 do not wonder at it.” 

” My lord, 1 have not slept since 1 saw you on Thursday evening 
last. You did not do me the honor to make any communication to 
me after that brief and unsatisfactory interview.” 

” True; and 1 owe you an explanation for that. Dor reasons with 
which you are acquainted nothing could have been more vexatious 
or embarrassing for me than your father’s disappearance at this 
crisis. My first act was naturally to place myself in communication 
with Messrs. Pollard & Pollard, and, as 1 told you this morning, 1 
was of necessity obliged to put myself completely in their hands.” 

“ 1 know, my lord, that that would be a course almost imposed 
upon you by the circum stances in which you are placed, and by the 
relations existing between you and those gentlemen. But, my lord, 
forgive me for reminding you that my father had been your faith- 
ful friend and servant for nearly a quarter of a century. Was not 
his memory — was not his family, entitled to your generous con- 
sideration? My father’s character and his services to your lordship 
deserved at least that you should not accept, without clear evi- 
dence, the suggestion of persons who were necessarily biased 
ajrainst him, and who were interested in influencing your lord- 
ship’s mind— 1 may say in poisoning your lordship’s mind— with 
misrepresentations. My father, 1 venture to say, deserved at your 
hands a considerable sacrifice even of your feelings, for he was em- 
ployed, at the very moment when he disappeared so mysteriously, 
in endeavoring to extricate you from a position of delicacy and em- 
barrassment fnto which those very persons whose advice you have 
now taken — to whose representations you have been lending an ear 
—had brought you.” 

“ This is all so true, George Barton,” said the earl, calmly, 

that it only expresses the very sentiments which 1 had resolved 
to communicate to you. 1 was completely upset— 1 hardly knew 
wdiat to do — by the grave situation in which these events placed 
me. Your lather’s absence— Tilbury’s accident— my own anxieties 
—have really rendered me incapable of judging and acting with the 
candor and justice which you had a right to expect of me.” 

” 1 can well understand that, my lord,” said George Barton, with 
a sarcastic curl of the lips. 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


71 


“ Do not imagine,” said the earl, ” that you have been forgotten,, 
or that we have not all ot us telt pained by the strange and incred- 
ible theories to which we seemed to be driven in order to account 
tor your father’s conduct. Your name has been often on my chil- 
dren’s lips. I am sure Lady Blanche and Charles, your early play- 
mates, both sympathize with you sincerely. Lord Charles would 
have been to see you, had 1 not felt obliged, by the advice 1 had 
received, to forbid it; but they have not ceased to ask alter you, for 
you know the regard they feel for you.” 

Bai ton’s eyelids fell, his cheek glowed, his heart throbbed wdtli 
a pleasurable feeling. Then he checked himself. Were these last 
W(;rds the outcome of candor or of diplomacy? Was this a 
Mephistophelean whisper, or a flash of real kindness? Spite of the 
horrible suspicions George Barton was nursing against the earl, these 
simple words, for some subtle reason, acted like a soothing balm 
to tiie irritation of the young man’s feelings. For a moment or twa 
he yielded to the sweet consolation they afforded him. But sud- 
denly he glanced doubtfully at the peer, became pale and somber 
again, and said coldly, though with a courteous and respectful air, 

” 1 thank you very much, my lord, for taking the trouble to call 
and express yourself so kindly. 1 am particularly grateful for the 
sympathy of Lady Blanche and Lord Charles, if you will allow me 
to acknowledge it to them through you. ■ Considering the suspicious 
as to the reason for my father’s disappearance which you owned to 
this morning, 1 coula hardly have expected to have been received 
otherwise than you did receive me, unjust as those suspicions were. 
1 can understand how deeply you are annoyed by his absence, for 
1 know the crisis in your affairs to be an acute one.” 

” True,” replied the earl, ” but I do not wish you to suppose 
that 1 am thinking wholly of my own troubles, serious as they are. 
1 was quite upset this morning by the suggestion you threw out 
concerning your father’s fate. It seemed so incredible and so hor- 
rible.” 

” My lord, 1 am convinced it is correct.” Barton spoke with a 
dry, defiant emphasis. 

” Well, you never were a visionary; you genera*.'y measure your 
words and speak with reason. 1 can only say to you what 1 have 
just said in effect to Pollard & Pollard. If you can only show me 
that there is reasonable ground for your conviction, 1 will ofier 
£2000 reward for the elucidation of the mystery — for a greater or 
more fearful mystery was never presenteil to human being — and 
whatever may be the consequences to me, 1 pledge myself to do 
everything 1 can to assist in its solution.” 

George Barton looked for a moment irresoi.:tely at the earl, as it 
he fain would have believed his words to be sincere. He said, 
calmly and sarcastically, 

‘‘ My lord, a reward has been already ofi:ered in your lordship’s 
name. You did not mention to me this morning that an advertise- 
ment had appeared with your sanction, which was a cruel and in- 
famous reflection on my father.” 

IJis eye and voice pointed the words. The earl did not appear to- 
notice the young man’s manner, though in reality he was deeply 
wounded by it. He was there to conciliate him at any cost to his 


72 


A WEEK OE PASSION. 


pride, and be go^rerned himself accordingly, still waving the olive- 
branch. 

“ Why, Barton, the advertisement of which you speak only came 
to my knowledge an hour ago, during my interview with Pollard & 
Pollard. Not only had 1 not been consulted about it, but I ex- 
pres«!ed my displeasure at its insertion in the strongest terms.” 

” I beg your lordship’s pardon, if I have made a mistake. It 
was a naUiral one. It was hardly possible for me to suppose that, 
under all the circumstances which are known to me, there was not 
a perfect accord between your lordship and Pollard & Pollard.” 
■young Barton’s tone was bitterly sarcastic. 

This pricked the earl to the quick. It reminded him that the 
young man was in possession of the perilous and inglorious secret 
of his wrong-doing. It seemed to warn him, already hunted and 
worried beyond endurance, that he was in the hands of this young, 
inexperienced, and angry youth. 

‘‘Those circumstances, sir,” he said, carried away by an anger 
which he could not control, ” came to your knowledge through your 
father’s bad faith, and it is a perfectly unjustifiable and gratuitous 
insult to throw them in my teeth in the manner you have done. 
What does this mean? Do you wish to use the knowledge you 
have thus obtained tor your own advantage? If so, George Barton, 
what is your price? What can I give you for your silence?” 

” You can give me back my falher. Lord Selby — or, failing that, 
you can help me discover his murderers— for murdered he has been 
by the foulest means; and I tell you the only persons who could 
possibly have any motives tor injuring him or putting him out of 
the way were those who thought that he was the solitary confidant 
of the secrets of their shame and criminality!” 

The young man had risen, and seemed by his gesture, as he threw 
forward his right hand, to be casting his words in the teeth of the 
earl. 

The peer also jumped to his feet, his face white with passion, his 
eyes flashing, his lips quivering, his hands clinched. But suddenly 
his expression changed, the flame went down, he staggered, and fell 
back helplessly in the chair. His chin sunk on his breast. 

” Good God!’' he murmured, ” the boy thinks me a murderer!” 

Tears shot from his eyes like rain; but for that relief he must 
have fallen to the floor as if struck by a thunder-bolt. His trembling 
hands sought to hide them, for the consciousness of weeping there, 
before the young man, filled his proud spirit with shame and 
anguish. 

George Barton stood astounded at the effect of his own wmrds. 
The man, before whom he had ever bowed with reverence and a 
sense of inferiority, was there half-prostrate before him, struck 
down by his accusation. Terrified at the emotion which he had 
produced, he was too agitated to attempt to make any analysis of 
the causes of the earl’s extraordinary collapse. Was it guilt? Was 
it the horror of innocence at the foulness of the Charge? Was it 
acting? George did not ask himself these questions. A sudden 
revulsion of pity and regret swept away in a moment -all the feel- 
ings which had prompted his cruel speech— his more implacable 
gesture. In any case he felt how wrong he had been to allow him 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


73 

self to be betrayed out of the self-possession he bad resolutely sworn 
to maintain until suspicions had been converted into certainties. 
Nevertheless, he stood there silent, puzzled, troubled, gazing at the 
earl, and not knowing what to say. 

As for the earl — what were the emotions that had given so sudden 
a shock to the moral and physical equilibrium of this man of fastidi- 
ous and imperturbable cynicism, which had unsealed fountains of 
feeling, the very existence of which he had himself forgotten, so 
long had they been dried up? If he were innocent, -vvould not 
honest wrath and indignation have been the ruling emotions of the 
moment? Were he guilty, would that involuntary cry of anguish 
and surprise have escaped his lips? But this strange admixture of 
weakness and revolt, of wounded pride and passionate sorrow, was 
quite incomprehensible. 

There were a thousand motives pressing George Barton to interpret 
the earl ’s emotion frankly and generously — early associations, grate- 
ful remembrances of kindnesses that went back to the first notes 
registered by childish sense on the tablets of memory, affection for 
the earl’s dead wife and his living f amily, his own personal interest. 

As we have seen, his father had always expecled him to succeed 
to the position he held in the earl’s establishment, that of the supreme 
agent or man of affairs of a colossal estate, but the young man’s 
own ambitions flew at higher game. He would have sacrificed 
those ambitious to his father’s wishes, which for him had almost 
the sacredness of a divine prescription— for, in his family, the pure 
and noble character and life of the elder Barton had evoked the rev- 
erence and devotion of a cult, while his solid intelligence, fine 
human sympathy, gentleness and warmth of heart, had drawn his 
wife and children to him in bonds of the closest affection. There- 
fore the son never contravened his father's decision, and Lord Selby 
had almost allowed it to be taken for granted that he would trans- 
mit to the sou, should he prove himself worthy of it, the trust and 
regard he had in and for the father. Then there was another, a 
deep and secret feeling, at which we have hinted, which made it 
almost impossible for George Barton the younger, in this awful 
crisis of his life, to arm himself with the firmness and implacability 
of a Spartan revenge. 

One of the brightest recollections of his younger days was the 
image of a lovely little fairy, always dressed in gay, coquettish cos- 
tumes, ever vivacious, sparkling, mischievous, and yet full of in- 
fantile dignity, chattering French in delicious accents with a gracious 
lonne, and filling the vaulted halls of the grand castle of Selby with 
the echoes of an exquisite folly and gayety; and later on, as she 
developed from girlhood to womanhood, discovering charms more 
luminous and enchanting from day to day, like the waxing of the 
moon in the mouth of harvest. Ay! he had watched her, watched 
her long before he began to know or to suspect the secret of that 
spell which love and fate were so irresistibly weaving around him, 
and w^hich was to carry in its silken web the issues of his life. The 
footing on which Mr. Barton’s children were admitted to the free- 
dom of Selby Castle was sufficiently familiar, but of course could 
not deceive or mislead them as to the exact nature of their relations 
to their patrons. The intimacy which grew up especially between 


A AVEEK OF PASSIOiq’. 


74 

young George Barton and Lord Charles Layton, and incidentally 
with Lady Blanche, was regarded, or rather was disregarded, by the 
oarl with that stately indifterence to any ot the consequences likely 
to flow from such an intimacy wnich was natural to a man wLo 
knew that there were not a dozen families in England able fairly to 
pretend to an equality with his, and who had the confldence that 
none ot his children would forfeit or compromise their aristocratic 
supremacy. On the other hand, the elder Barton’s good sense, and 
the admirable qualities of his w ife, a woman of rare culture and 
manners, was a sutficient guarantee that the familiarity of the rela- 
tions between the castle and the manor-house would alw^ays he tem- 
pered on both sides with a due regard of the conventional lines 
w'hich birth and fortune had drawn between them. But for George 
Barton, living within the fairy circle of fascination surrounding a 
beautiful girl, who treated him with mingled frankness and reserve, 
the situation was one perilous to the peace of his soul. The sweet 
and fatal influences slowly, surely wrapped themselves around his 
heart, until he found it impossible to shake them ofl:. 

Lady Blanche w^as a girl of precocious intellect, and just at the 
time when the blossoms of the mind were forming, rich with promise 
ot attractive fruit, the Countess of Selby died. The young girl had 
spent much of the time after that great loss with her aunt, the 
Countess ot Tilbury; but she was always at Selby when her fathei 
came down, and there were abundant opportunities of intercourse 
between the clever, captivating beauty and George Barton, whose 
heart was capable of a great passion, and whose mind was develop- 
ing into one of exceptional flneness and power. Lady Blanche, with 
her quick appreciations, could not fail to be struck by George’s 
superiority to other young men, Ins gentle gravity, the distinction 
and originality of his conversation. Contrasting him with the 
chums who were brought to the castle from Eton and Oxford by 
Lord Layton or Lord Charles, for shooting or hunting, or on the 
pretense of reading parties, which degenerated into much healthy 
exercise and much unhealthy eating, drinking, and smoking, she 
was forced to lake note of his advantages. Among these young 
aristocrats, as among the older and more distinguished guests who 
in the autumn filled the great castle with brilliant life, George Bar- 
ton was always a striking and welcome figure. Old judges predicted 
for him a distinguished career at the bar, and old statesmen congrat- 
ulated the earl on a godson who would shine in political life, if he 
ever had the chance. 

The young man, trained by his clever and ambitious mother, Knew 
exactly how to hit the mean between fawning adulation and rude 
presumption. He preserved his self-respect while forcing regard. 
Though his mental supeiiority was eminent, he knew how to avoid 
imposing it on his young associates, and in their sports he showed 
equal enthusiasm and address with those who gave their minds to 
nothing else except the development ot their bodies. Hence, so far 
as manners and appearance were concerned, there was little besides 
his name to distinguish him from the aristocratic company which 
surrounded him, whereas he stood out clearly from among them all 
by the solidity as well as the brilliancy of his culture. His father 
had sent him to Cambridge. He was third in the list of wranglers, 


A WEEK OF PASSIOFT. 


75 

and first in the classical tripos. No wonder that Mr. Le Breton 
exclaimed against the idea of making such a youth the agent of a 
peer. 

But the elder Barton had a horror of ambition. He had seen it 
conduct to so many shipwrecks. Whatever his ultimate intentions 
were, he did not encourage his son to look beyond the moderate 
but honorable station in which he had found for himself an unal- 
loyed comfort and happiness. So the old gentleman wanted to 
article his son to a solicitor. George’s ambition was pressing him 
to aim at something higher, but he resolved that he would carry out 
the paternal wishes at any sacrifice. Probably it was with a sotne- 
wdiat unconscious hypocrisy that he argued with his father that the 
education of a barrister would tit him as well for the coveted post as 
that of a solicitor. The elder Barton was not without a touch of 
humor. He said, 

“ For every guinea earned by a barrister a solicitor gels at least 
ten six and-eight-pences. You are a wrangler and you can calculate 
whether ten times six-and-two-ttiirds is greater than tw^enty-one. 
However, tor a position such as mine, where there are no bills of 
cost to render, and all that is required is a good head for business 
and a sterling integrity, 1 don’t think it matters which profession 
you belong to. And then it, after all, you should turn out to be a 
genius, wliich no Barton that 1 ever heard of ever did yet, you may 
be able to look higher. You shall read with Le Breton.” 

There may have been, after all, a profounder sagacity and a more 
real ambition in Mr. Barton’s mind than he allowed to appear in 
desiring to place his son in the position of confidential adviser and 
manager for the earl. He may have thought that this was the surest 
way to bring to the notice of one of the astutest men in England, and 
of keeping under that notice, in exceptionally favorable circum- 
stances, the great abilities of Ids son. The earl was a keen politi- 
cian. Young Barton’s views, like his father’s, leaned to Conserva- 
tism, and the agent of the Earl of Selby had many opportunities, if 
he chose to use them, of playing even a brilliant part in county 
politics. Old Mr. Barton, not being a brilliant man, had to be con- 
tent to act as a shrewd and active organizer, but George might, with 
his powers, take a more prominent and showy part. Mr. Barton, 
however, was one of those extraordinary men who can think for 
years over a subject and never allow a sign to pass his lips. 

When he had placed him in Le Breton’s chambers, through 
w^hich, for thirty years, had been passing a vast number of those 
chickens of the bar who afterward became champion birds and 
cocks of the legal walk, Le Breton, after a few months, told his 
friend. 

Barton, your son is not cut out lor an agent. He is no mere 
hard-working lawyer. If you meant him only for that, you had no 
business to make him a wrangler. He combines a poetic tempera- 
ment with great practical intelligence. He is a man of culture and 
a man of the world, as well as a keen reasoner and a thorough man 
of business. 1 don’t tell him so, mind. God forbid that 1 should 
do anything to thwart 3mur wishes and prevent him from settling 
down at Manor Calham with twelve or fifteen hundred a year— I 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


76 

dare say?— and imlimiled shooting, '^\hicli 1 know you prize so 
much! "But really he is fit for better things tlian that.” 

“ We shall see,’ said Mr. Barton, shutting his lios. 

But he never had the chance of resolving the question, and that 
is the worst of long-headed people. They look so very far aliead 
that they sometimes die before the journey is half finished. 

This is a long digression, I must admit, in order to enable the 
reader to appreciate the feelings with which young George Barton 
stood gazing, with troubled eyes, at the peer, on whom his speech 
had produced such a tragical effect. But these explanations must 
liave come in somewhere, and just here they have the advantage of 
filling up the time necessary to allow the earl to recover from his 
emotion. Gradually a conviction began to penetrate into Barton’s 
mind that his emotion was sincere. Indeed, his heart leaned all that 
way. But the past few days and nights with their horrible experi- 
ences, their powerful wrestlings of mind and heart, their hours of 
sorrow, their episodes of vindictive passion, had not left George 
Barton as he was — generous, confiding, hopeful, young. He had 
matured more in those desolate hours than he had in years of his 
previous life. For in the hot-beds of sorrow and passion the soul 
takes on a quick and morbid growth. His faith in men was forever 
shaken, his belief in the victory of truth and virtue was rudely un- 
dermined, and the natural gentleness of his nature had given way to 
a fierce and dogged determination of vengeance. 

The earl spoke first. He had somewhat recovered himself, but 
he kept his eyes fixed gloomily on the floor, his chin still lay upon 
his breast, his hands resting helplessly on the arms of the chair. 

“ 1 deserve it!” he said, in a hollow voice; “ I deserve the out- 
rage and shame of this foul suspicion, for having once allowed my- 
self to be the accomplice of a dishonorable act. But it is hard to 
bear. 1 thought 1 should have fallen dead.” 

He put his hand to his heart, and then, as if reassured as to his 
vitality and strength, he straightened himself up, and with a com- 
posed face looked steadily at^George Barton. 

“Barton,” he said, “you have struck the Earl of Selby the 
hardest and foulest blow that was ever struck at a Layton, and in 
their time they have had to give and take hard blows enough. For 
such an imputation as you have now so unjustly thrown at me my 
ancestors would have broken you on the wheel, or starved you to 
death in a dungeon. My father would have run you through with 
a sword. I need no such weapons. Ilou are young — you will al- 
ways regret these words, thrown in my teeth in a moment of vin- 
dictive passion. The recollection of "them will punish you more 
than anything 1 could say or do— for the suspicion which prompted 
them is false, and has no foundation whatever except in the fancies 
of your disordered brain. But, you will say, being young and in- 
experienced, ‘Why, then, this emotion?’ 1 will tell you, and let 
my words sink deep into your mind. When an honorable man* has 
once taken a false step, has once lost the golden aureole of that oer- 
sonal dignity and sense of integrity which not only illumines with- 
out, but emanates from an illumination within, his moral strength 
has departed, as Samson’s went from him when he broke his vow'. 
A few months ago such an imputation as you Just now cast in my 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


77 


teeth would hardly have excited my indignation. 1 should have 
treated it with pity and contempt; and yet just now you have seen 
me, absolutely innocent of anything most remotely justifying your 
frightful suspicions, crushed in a moment, almost to the earth, by 
this inconsiderate and horrible accusation. Why? Because at that 
moment there were suddenly revealed to my mind the full extent 
and bearing and consequences of an act of weakness committed— or 
shall I say permitted?— in a time of oyerwhelming anxiety. You 
say your father has confided all my secrets to you — then jmu know 
the facts. ]f George Barton told the story, he would emphasize, or 
€ven exaggerate, the circumstances which were extenuating.” 

George Barton the younger involuntarily stretched out his hands 
at these words, as if he would have taken the earl’s between his 
ovvn, but the earl repulsed him with a gesture of dignity. 

” 1 don’t wish to extenuate them. From this hour they have De- 
come to me more shocking and less excusable than ever. 1 allowed 
two vulgar rascals to entrap me into a position which was dishonor- 
able, which would not bear the criticism of honest men, or stand the 
searching investigation of the law. It seems they have rendered 
me liable to one of the most awful suspicions that could rest upon 
the head of a human being. Ah! the aureole has gone — the aureole 
has gone forever.” 

His head drooped again. 

” My lord,” interrupted George Barton, in a thrilling voice, 
^‘forgive me! let me speak! Not so! The aureole comes back 
with repentance and restitution. 1 know now, and 1 see— alas! too 
late to have prevented me from conceiving an outrageous injustice 
— that your professions of a resolution to vindicate your honor at 
whatever cost were sincere and earnest. Do not let my deplorable 
blunder— my detestable suspicion — throw a shadow where none, 
exists. 1 have wronged j^ou, my lord — God forgive me! — and in 
wronging you, 1 see -1 see — 1 have wronged the memory of my 
father, who, if he were here now, would be the first and most im- 
placable judge of the folly and evil 1 have committed. My lord, 
you are right; no sword is needed for my punishment — the anguish 
of this moment can never be effaced from my memory. How can 
you pcssibly forgive me, or bear the , sight of me again?” 

” Stay,” said the earl, gently, and evidently deeply moved by the 
cruel anguish that was painted on ihe young man’s face. '■ 1 did 
not mean to increase the pain which I knew would be felt by a man 
of your sense and spirit who had fallen into such an error. 1 have 
forgiven you, George Barton, believe me, from the bottom of my 
heart. 1 do not forget that 1 myself had put the weapon in your 
hand. It was my criminal w’^eakness in the past which excited and 
saemed to justify your suspicions, and supplied the barb to your 
dart. 1 have hardly any right to complain. Moreover, 1 gave the 
provocation by the terms in which 1 referred to your father. You 
retorted with too terrible an effect— thank God you were wrong! But 
now let us understand each other, for that is what I have come for. 
1 also have had my suspicions awakened by something which has 
occurred since 1 saw you in the morning. 1 have just had a sudden 
and vivid illumination. Now that you have thrown this lurid flash 
upon the circumstances, 1 seem to see the outlines of a dreadful 


78 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


possibility. Yes; you may be only half wrouff. It may be true 
that George Barton has been a victim ot the fault which 1 had com- 
mitted. So far, some responsibility may rest upon me, an uncon- 
scious cause of a great crime. Otherwise I am, in act and inten- 
tion, as innocent as my daughter Blanche or an unborn babe. And 
I give you my word that no considerations, family or personal, 
shall deter me from aiding you to unearth the real authors ot this 
infernal plot, if it be true that George Barton has been made away 
with by foul means. Kow 1 give you my hand upon it.” 

George took the hand which was extended to him, and bent over 
it trembling with a variety of emotions. The cynic and man of the 
world had spoken with earnestness and feeling. He had uncovered 
a side of his character which George had never suspected the ex- 
istence of, and which perhaps he had never before exhibited to any 
human being. It is a peculiarity of that powerful, incomparable 
Anglo-Norman race, w^hich, however Mr. John Bright and similar 
bigots may affect to despise it, has molded the English character 
in some of its noblest lines of pride and dignity and chivalry, that 
half its qualities will lie unsuspected and unrevealed from the cradle 
to the grave, unless some extraordinary event, such as happened to 
the earl, should involuntarily call them forth. This strange and 
proud reserve is unknown to any other race. 

Not only were George Barton’s suspicions removed, but he felt 
ashamed and mortified at ever having entertained them, for the earl’s 
emotion, his suffering, his language and manner, combined to prove 
beyond a doubt that he had spoken with perfect sincerity. It was 
impossible for the young man to find words to express all that was 
in his heart, relieved suddenly ot a horrible burden. He stood 
troubled and confounded. 

The earl had recovered his ascendency. He said, 

• “ It will be long before either of us can forget the pain of this 
incident. If you feel now that you can treat me as 1 am prepared 
to treat you, with perfect confidence, our duty is to confer together 
as to the steps we ought to take. There is before each of us a pain* 
ful task — we must help each other. With the information you 
possess, and acting as my friend, you may be of infinite service to 
me in the critical position in which I am placed; for, if you have 
suspicions that there has been foul play on the part ot certain per- 
sons, as regards your father, 1 am, unhappily, almost at their mercy; 
and your knowledge of the facts, aided by your intelligence and 
perspicacity, may enable me to neutralize the tremendous advantages 
which they have acquired over me. You can trust me, on my side, 
to do everything in my power to clear up the mystery of your 
father’s fate, and remove every stain from his memory.” 

” My lord,” said young Barton, ” 1 am entirely in your hands. 
1 would offer you not merely a reparation, but, if you will allow 
me— even after what has occurred— to revert to my relation as your 
godson, 1 humbly tender the services of affection. 1 believe i have 
some very serious information, quite unknown to you, for my father 
had not seen you for some days, during which matters of the gravest 
character came to his knowledge.” 

” In my business?” 

“ Yes, my lord — things almost incredible. The bearing of these 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


79 

things on the subject of our anxiety, now that 1 have to consider 
them from a fresh point of view, will be materially altered. If you 
will give me time to collect my thoughts after this trying interview, 
1 shall be able to lay these new facts before you, and express an 
opinion upon the effect they are likely to have on your position. 
As there is no time to be lost, may 1 call in Portman Square this 
evening?” 

” Certainly,” said the earl, ” though 1 have received Her Majesty’s 
commands to a Queen’s ball to-night. Business, however, of this 
kind almost supersedes loyalty, and 1 shall take the same liberty 
that Her Majesty does, and stay away. 1 shall be alone at nine 
o’clock, and remember, George, by-gones are by-gones, and we 
meet then, as of old, good friends.” 


CHAPTER VI 11. 

WHICH SUPPLIES A KEY TO MOllE POSITIONS THAN ONE. 

At nine o’clock, when George Barton presented himself at the 
mansion in Portman Square, he was informed that the Earl of 
Selby was awaiting him in the library. Young Barton could not 
look again without emotion upon the familiar face of old Beesley, 
the porter, and the well-known features of the interior, with their 
mixture of comfort and grandeur. The wide hail, after running 
for some distance as a broad, handsome corridor, opened into a large 
square, which rose to a cupola in the roof of the mansion, and by the 
walls of which a grand staircase conducted to the drawing-room 
floor and upper stories. On the right of the entrance hall was a 
morning-room. He knew it well. It was the favorite retreat of 
Lady Blanche Layton. Her piano was there, and her easel, her 
escritoire, her books her great cage of birds. The room had been 
her mother’s domestic headquarters — it was haunted with mem- 
ories of her. There was not a coiner which did not betray the 
taste of an artistic and thoughtful woman, the touch of a 
delicate feminine hand. The great dining-room was on the left. 
The library, where the earl was waiting, was at the back of the 
house on the first floor. As Barton was following the footman 
along the marble-paved hall, preoccupied with the grave subjects 
of the interview he was about to have with the earl, the door of the 
morning-room opened — a great mahogany door with crystal handles 
— and in the light which flooded from within the large oblong space 
thus cut out, as it were, in the gloomy wall appeared a beautiful 
young woman, while a voice, soft, clear, and melodious, said, 

” Mr. Barton!” 

Young Barton started and turned round, and his eyes fell on a 
figure in such strong and brilliant contrast with his melancholy 
gloom as to have all the effect which is attributed in Roman hagiog- 
raphy to the vision of a saint or an angel. This one, however, 
was not arrayed in celestial costume, though it .seemed to Bartoh’s 
eye to be shining as the day. On the contrary, her dress exhibited 
all the diabolic skill of the wicked Parisian artist in clothes. She 
wore a ball-dress of while satin and lace, with a crimson bodice. 


80 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


subdued bj’’ a covering of white and gold web of the finest texture, 
a touch of crimson here and there in tlie train. Out of the fine, 
delicately -shaped corsage, like a white rosebud from its petal, rose 
her exquisite bust and shoulders, thrown into dazzling relief by the 
light coming from behind her. Her abundant dark hair was coiffed 
with a glittering spray of diamonds. This worldly-angelic appari- 
tion was looking at him with large lustrous eyes which were beam- 
ing with a gentle sympathy. 

“ Lady Blanche!” he exclaimed, in a deep, delignted tone, as he 
took a step toward her, “ I did not expect to see you!” 

She held out her right hand, which was ungloved, with a charm- 
ing gesture of mingled frankness and dignity, and tor just an instant 
gave his burning fingers a pressure which conveyed a magnetic 
current of sympathy, * She appeared more lovely than ever, now 
that he was close to her, and could examine the fresh young face, a 
little paler and thinner perhaps, from the season’s excitement and 
fatigues, than it had been when he had last seen her, before the in- 
genuousness of girlhood had felt the contact of cynical worldliness, 
selfish passions, and intriguing social ambitions— but he thought she 
looked all the more charming and spiritual for that. She had de- 
veloped— she was a woman — and as her whole aspect and carriage 
showed, a woman of rare character and power. Not that her beauty 
was artistically perfect, although in looking 2 Xi]iQ ensemble, it would 
have been hard lor the assthetic experts to say what they would 
have had changed. A clear, high, open forehead, with delicate 
temples, dark, finely-arched eyebrows, eyes deep violet and lustrous, 
a little prominent, beneath which just now a slight weariness or 
anxiety had tinted the fair akin with a shade of violet, as if the 
color had escaped from the crystal fountains above. Her nose was^ 
straight, like her father’s, with a clear, fine profile, and exquisitely 
curled and chiseled nostrils, with indefinable characteristics of force 
and pride; full lips, well-formed and rqddy, within which, when 
she smiled, the faultless enamel of small regular teeth shone white 
and healthy, while her chin was full, round, dimpled — the dimple 
throwing a certain naive grace into the grave proportions of the 
lower face. It was, on the whole, a face rather of intellectual than 
physical beaut3% but its charm, in movement or repose, w^as simply 
intense. Barton had never seen her in full evening dress before; he 
was startled and thrilled by the splendor of her white shoulders and 
finely-shaped arms, and the exquisite mold of her neck and bosom. 

For a moment he stood gazing at her witli an inadvertent expres- 
sion of half- wonder, half -worship. No woman is unconscious of 
the effect produced by her charms, and Lady Blanche was as quick 
and keen an observer as her father. 

“lam dressed for the queen’s ball,” she said, simpBq casting a 
glance down over her figure, ‘‘ and 1 am going first to Lady Parting, 
ton’s, but 1 wanted to see you just a moment, so-1 have dressed 
early. Oh, Mr. Barton, 1 am so sorry for you! You don’t Know 
how sorry lam!” 

With a quick, half-involuntary movement she put out her hand 
toward him, as if to emphasize her words. 

He hardly knew what he was doing. He seized the little hand 
and pressed it to his lips. The act would have been daring in a. 


A AVEEK OE PASSION. 81 

prince, and wliat it was in the son of Earl Selby’s late agent, defies 
an estimate. 

She snatched away her hand quickly; a flash of feeling passed 
across her face which it was impossible to define. She was con- 
scious, among othf-r facts, that at the foot of the stairs stood six feet 
of curiosity and garrulity, majestically pretending to be engaged in 
studying the fair proportions of its silk-enveloped leg, but keenly 
following every word and movement; and then this was an unheard 
of liberty. But Barton stood before her in an attitude that was not 
undignified, though it seemed to imply surprise at his own audacity, 
and supplication for pardon could be read in his dark, expressive 
eyes. The flame that had shot for a second from under the long 
lashes of the lady was, however, quickly subdued. 

“ 1 wanted to tell 3 "ou that, Mr. Barton,’.’ she said, her voice and 
manner altering to reserve, as she drew back slightly, though he, 
on his part, sharply watching, had detected a flush which, like a 
touch of rosy down, flitted over her neck and face — “ 1 was alraid 
3 ^ou would think we had all forgotten you, but 1 assure you both 
Charlie and 1 have felt the deepest sympathy with you in this lerri- 
ble trial.” 

“ 1 can not tell you. Lady Blanche,” responded George Barton, 
in a tremulous voice, ” how grateful to me your words are. 1 have, 
indeed, been 'dreadfully lonely and deserted. Please tell Lord 
Charles how much 1 thank him. 1—1 don’t know how to express 
my thanks to you, Lady Blanche.” 

” Oh, 1 think you have been able to convey them to me, Mr. 
Barton,” she replied, in a tone which was slightly severe and mali- 
cious. ” But 1 must not keep you. The earl is waiting tor you in 
the library. God help you to bear this dreadful sorrow. Good- 
night!” 

Once more he held that lovely little hand in his for a second; once 
more he felt the glance of her beautiful eyes fixed upon him with 
tender interest and pity; and then she retired into the room, and 
Barton, turning toward the staircase, experienced the sensation of 
having suddenly walked into darkness. He look two or three steps, 
and only came to himself when the tall footman said: 

” This way, if you please, Mr. Barton.” 

The man spoke gently, and somehow his tone was penetrated with 
sympathy. How and then the hearts of these rude observers of the 
dramas of great houses— and what strange things they see and hear! 
— are touched by the little idyllic scenes of sentiment which pass 
beneath their eyes. 

“Thank you, Colston.” said George Barton, simply. He knew 
all tlie servants, and was a favorite among them. “ I am in great 
trouble, Colston, and sometimes hardly know what 1 am doing.” 

Colston made The sage internal reflection that Master George 
seemed to have known what he was doing well enough when he 
kissed my young lady’s hand, hut he said, 

“ 1 know, Mr, George, and we all feels for you very much.” 

His tone was low, and it seemed as if emotion of some rare order 
had incapacitated him from producing anything more than this feeble 
remark, for he hastened the long stride of his sturdy leg to avoid 
Barton’s eye. 


82 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 


To this little word ot the j^ounj; gentleman’s, uttered with no 
diplomatic object, he probably owed it that the particulars of his 
interview with Lady Blanche were not retailed that evening by 
Colston, one of the earl’s favorite servants, and a man otherwise of 
a brave disposition, for the amusement of the servants’ hall. 

But now, as George Barton mounted the staircase, he felt a new 
life throbbing in his heart, and sending a fresh energy through his 
frame. He marched with a firmer step. The sight of Lady Blanche 
had been a vision of the Angel of Hope in her brightest and most 
promising colors. 

When he entered the library he found the earl sitting gloomily in 
a great arm-chair, with In's head resting on his hand. He did not 
rise, but by a familiar gesture motioned to another easy-chair w^hich 
was near him, and said, 

“ I arr glad to see you. Barton, for my own sake, but 1 have 
some melancholy news tor you. Your presentiments were, 1 am 
sorry to say, only too correct. Tilbury has come to himself; he is 
not out of danger, but he is able to speak. One ot the first things 
he said to the countess was ‘ Barton ’ ! Re seemed to have some 
horrible impression on his mind, though he is unable to define the 
cause of it. The last thing he remembers is seeing poor Barton 
directly in front of his horse. That is all he recoDecis, and they 
have not told him anything more. He is quite unconscious of what 
followed— Ah! forgive me; 1 have been too precipitate in telling 
you of this.” 

George had sunk back in the chair, and was gazing at the earl 
with startled and haggard e.yes. At length there w^as no doubt— 
the convictions xo which his instinct had carried him were con- 
firmed. Yet there is always some incertitude, some vague hope, 
which lingers subtle and unsuspected under the most confident de- 
ductions from circumstantial evidence. A moment before Barton 
W’ould have maintained the certainty that his father was the man 
who had met his death in the Circus — he had afiirmed it in the 
morning— and yet, now that the statement of the Earl of Tilbury 
put it beyond all question, the news fell upon the son’s heart like a 
fresh blow. Yes, his father was dead— had died in the most horrible 
manner— was the subject of the sensational mystery about which 
all London was talking and speculating, and George Barton’s brain 
seemed to be whirling round like a broken watch-spring; his hands 
grew cold, the sweat stood in great drops on his forehead. The 
bright vision was forgotten, the somber shadows ot death and crime 
came down upon his soul, and an intolerable grief almost weighed 
him down to the earth. 

The earl was moved by the young man’s anguish. It is difficult 
for the most clever worldling to fin(V the right w^rds to say in such 
a moment — only a child, or a lover, can touch jvith soothing fingers 
the chords ot nature which vibrate to such a crashing stroke as that. 
The peer was too fine a spirit not to feel his oxvn incompetence in 
such a case; but he rose and said with emotion in his voice, as he 
took one of the cold hands which lay flaccid on the arm of the chair, 

” The shock has been too great tor you. Stay, let me go and get 
you a glass ot wine.” 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 83 

He made a step toward the door to fetch it himself, but George 
stopped him. 

“ No, my lord, thank you,” he said. “ 1 shall recover in a mo- 
ment. It seems so dreadful now that there can be no doubt about 
it. 1 will try to master my feelings.” 

Still, his head sunk into his hands. 

The eail, nevertheless, went out of the room. He thought the 
young man would probably recover more readily if he were left 
alone lor a while with his grief, so, to make a pretext for his absence, 
he went for some wine. He was very uncomfortable. 

And then there happened one of those strange and unaccountable 
things which no science and no theories of supernatural government 
or influences can satisfactorily explain, one of those fatal incidents 
in which all the actors seem to be the puppets of some fantastic 
presligiator, and are unconsciously entangling themselves in the net 
of an inextricable destiny. As the earl was directing his steps to 
the dining-room to seek tor the wine. Lady Blanche, wrapped in a 
long, white mantle, came out of the morning-room, ready to enter 
the carriage which had been ordered round from the stables to take 
her to the house of the Marchioness of Wight, a cousin of the earl’s, 
who was to be her chaperon for the evening. Her eye w’as quick. 
She read trouble and consternation in her father’s face. He had 
not informed his children of the statement made by Lord Tilbury. 

” Why, papa,” she said, putting her two hands on his shoulders, 
and looking earnestly at him, ” you look quite pale. Are you ill? 
What has happened? Has George Barton gone already?” 

The earl, in his trouble, did not notice the familiar manner in 
which she had named the 5mung man. 

” No,” he said. ‘‘ He is not well. 1 was goinsr to get him a 
glass of wine. He has just heard something which has affected 
him very painfully.” 

” Papa, let me go for it!” cried his daughter, throwing off her 
mantle on a settee wdiich was near her, putting her arm through her 
father’s, and drawing him into her room, a room dear and sacred 
to him by many memories. ” Bit down there while 1 get it — you 
need something, too.” 

“ No— give me a glass of water, and fetch some wine for him.” 

There was water standing on the table in a silver flagon. She 
brought him a glassful. 

” Papa,” she said, ‘‘ do tell me what has happened! What is it 
that you have heard to trouble you so much?” 

“ My dear Blanche,” replied the earl, who felt revived by the 
draught, ‘‘ don’t trouble yourself about it— it is very painful news 
— and you are going out. You had better leave us— 1 can manage 
quite well— and you will hear about it to morrow.” 

“ No— please, papa, 1 could not go away now; 1 should be on 
thorns all the night. I shall not go out to-night,” she said, with 
decision; and she ran to the bell, which she rang with nervous 
force. 

” Yes, yes, my dear Blanche, you must go,” said the earl, ear- 
nestly. ” It is most important that there should be no fuss or gos- 
.«!ip about this affair of Barton’s, and you will only make people 
wonder why you are absent from the palace. 1 entreat you not to 


84 A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 

alter your arrangements. There is really nothing to call tor your 
interference.’' 

Lady Blanche had already sat down at her escritoire, and began 
to scribble a note to the marchioness. 

“ Well, papa,” she said, stopping her pen for an instant, ” I’ll 
tell you what I’ll do. I’ll ash the marchioness to take me up here 
on her way from the Partingtons’, and 1 can go to the ball all the 
same,” 

Colston entered the room. 

“ Colston, tell Bellamy to go with the carriage to the Marchioness 
of Wight’s and leave this note. 1 shall not want the carriage again 
to-night ; the marchioness will call for me here on her way from 
Portland Place to Buckingham Palace.” 

The earl never carried on a discussion before his servants. He 
was obliged to keep silent while this order was being given; be- 
sides, he knew that when his daughter had made up one mind — to 
wit, her own— it was of very little use trying to make up another. 

” Now, papa,” she said, when the footman had left {he room, as 
she came over and planted herself in a determined attitude opposite 
her father, “ what is this terrible news?” 

” Well, you little tyrant, 1 suppose 1 may as well tell you of it at 
once. 1 mentioned that Tilbury had spoken. From the first words 
he uttered it seems hardly possible to doubt that the victim of that 
Horrible business in Regent Circus was none other than Mr. Barton.” 

Lady Blanche clasped her hands together. 

” Old Mr. Barton! How dreadful! What a terrible blow for 
poor George Barton! But we are forgetting him. Go up to him ; 
1 will bring you !he wine in5^self.” 

She had vanished through the door Defore the earl could speak. 
He rose, and hastily mounted the staircase, anxious to see w^hether 
his visitor had recovered a little from his emotion. George Barton 
still sat with his head between his hands. The blood was coursing 
through his body with cpiickened impulse, his temples were throb- 
bing; a great struggle was being fought out within his soul. The 
earl was absolved, wholly and clearly in Barton’s mind, from any 
responsibility for the crime which it was now certain had been com- 
mitted; but he seemed to be so inextricably involved with those at 
whom Barton’s suspicions, now concentrated and intensified, point- 
ed with redoubled assurance — it would be so difficult, if George 
Barton’s idea were correct, to separate the eatl from his advisers, 
that, when the young man reflected on the justice which he felt it to 
be his sacred duty to pursue, he wms appalled at the perils which 
would hang over the head of the man in whose house he was sitting, 
and, consequently, of the woman for whom he had conceived a wird 
anti hopeless passion. At all risk his father’s honor should be vin- 
dicated; that was a definite decree of George Barton’s conscience. 
He swore by no gods, and took no supernatural powers to witness; 
it was the calm, inflexible dictate of reason and justice that he should 
undertake that task, regardless of nimself, of his own future, of the 
consequences to any one concerned. On the other hand, there were 
the terrible complications of the situation. The figure of the earl, 
his godfather, his father’s friend, his own generous patron, as he 
had seen it that day in his chambers, rose up before him. ft seemed 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


85 


to plead for forbearance and mercy — mercy not only for himself, 
but for the base, dastardly creatures whose punishment must in- 
volve him in shame and disgrace. And then there was that vision 
which had only a few minutes before flashed its brightness on Bar- 
ton’s eyes and heart, with its voice of tender sympathy, the touch 
that thrilled him with a strange delight, the look which electrified 
his frame; how could he bear to see her sufterine: the unmerited 
sorrows of a dishonored name and of broken fortunes? Cruel, in- 
deed, was the struggle which was going on in the young man’s mind, 
and of the fluration ol w'hich he had been quite unconscious, while 
the silver clock on the mantel-piece ticked on steadily. His reflec- 
tions were interrupted by the return of Lord Selby. George Barton 
hardly felt able to hold up his head and face to the earl, as he quietly 
took his seat by his side. 

“ 1 went,” said the earl, gently, “ to get you some wine. I met 
Blanche in the hall ’’—George trembled at the name — ‘‘ and she has 
gone to get it for you. She is lil<e her mother — always full of sym- 
pathy and goodness. Ah! here she comes.” 

The door was pushed quietl}" open, and Lady Blanche, a silver 
salver held out in both hands, on which were a flagon of water, a 
crystal decanter of wine, and two glasses advanced silently to the 
table. Her face was animated with exertion. George, at the last 
words of the earl, started to his feet, and a deadly pallor spread 
over his features. 

She rapidly poured out a glass of wine, and held it out to him. 

“Not that,” lio said, as a flush rapidly replaced the paleness in 
his cheek; ‘‘ but i will take a glass of water, please.” 

He moved as if to help himself, but she forestalled him. From 
her hand he took the clear and brilliant goblet, and emptied it to 
the last drop. Each drop was an elixir. 

” Do 3 mu feel better?” she said. 

“ Aes — Ladj’’ Blanche— thank you, ever so much?” 

“ The earl has told me— 1 can not say how grieved 1 am, Mr. 
Barton. It is really too dreadful. But ymu are strong — you will 
bear up, lam sure — for — for your mother’s sake. I will leave jmu 
now, papa. Good-night!” 

She did not offer him her hand this time, but her look was elo- 
quent with sympathy and encouragement; and as George Barton 
hastened to the door, she gave him a little farewell bow in passing 
out. He saw a jeweled tear run down her cheek, and once more he 
was left in darkness. But now he turned to the earl with a com- 
posed manner, and spoke in a firm, strong voice: 

“ My lord, during the few hours that have passed since 1 saw you 
in the Temple, 1 have had time to go carefully through all the facts 
of your relations with Pollard & Pollard, which were stored up in 
my memory, and 1 have assisted it by a reference to certain notes 
which 1 made from time to lime, and to some confidential letters 
and papers of my father’s wiiich are in my possession. Lord Til- 
bury’s confirmation of my worst suspicions came upon me so unex- 
pectedly that 1 was utterly overwhelmed, although 1 thought m 3 " 
mina w'as already so firmly convinced that no new evidence could 
have any effect on me. 1 suppose 1 must have been cherishing some 
unconscious doubts or hopes. You, doubtless, now agree with me 


86 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


that my poor father really did perish in this awful catastrophe. I 
am sure you do not believe that he was himselt the author of such 
a vulgar and sensational mystery. There is nothing left for us but 
to adopt the conclusion that behind this there is an infernal plot and 
a hideous crime.” 

” 1 am afraid,” said the earl, gravely, “ we are driven to that 
conclusion. There is no possible room to doubt it any longer. But 
who are the persons who could have had a motive for committing 
such a crime upon such a man as your father? My imagination is 
completely at fault. The plan of the murder is so inconceivably 
wild', perilous, and diabolical that 1 can not reconcile it with the 
character of the persons at whom your suspicions are evidently 
pointing.” 

” My lord,” replied Barton, ” you do not yet know all that my 
poor father had found out, and which he meant to have told you on 
that fatal afternoon. The situation, as 3mu understand it, is roman- 
tic and painful enough; but when you know everything, you will 
cease to feel any wonder that my suspicions have fastened on those 
people, the only people in the world, so far as 1 know, with regard 
to whom my poor father carried in his breast a disgraceful secret. 
You are not yet aware what a vital interest those people had in pre- 
venting that interview between you and him from taking place, in 
closing his mouth forever, in causing the proofs of their criminality 
to disappear.” 

” IVhat do you mean? another crime? something unconnected 
with the transaction which I have so much cause to regret?” 

” Yes, my lord. The transaction you refer to may be open to 
very severe judgment; but alongside that which my father unearthed, 
and of which the two Pollards were the perpetrators, it is compara- 
tive innocence. Exposure w^as simply utter ruin for them, and cer- 
tain consignment to a felon’s fate. Remember, my lord, that — just 
as you did — they must have imagined that my father was the only 
person living acquainted with the facts of this complicated business 
— they could never have suspected that, by some mysterious provi- 
dence, my father had intrusted to another mind— one which be re- 
garded as almost a supplement of his own — the important secrets 
which were filling him with anxiety; that he had called me in to 
help him to unwind the intricacies and carry the responsibilities of 
one of the most difficult situations from which an honorable man 
ever had to devise an outlet.” 

The earl nodded gravely. He was surprised at the ease and power 
with which young Barton expressed himself. The consciousness 
was dawning on him that his godson had suddenly become, to no 
small extent, the master of his destiny. With feverish impatience, 
like one who of old consulted the oracle, this astute, experienced 
peer, whose word before now had influenced the destinies of nations, 
hung upon the lips of a youth of whom only yesterday he would 
have thought, if he thought of him at ail, with languid or patroniz- 
ing interest. 

”1 was going to suggest,” continued George Barton, “that I 
should first state the facts as they are known to me, and ask you to 
correct or fill them up fiom your own knowledge. 1 will, at the 
same time, give my impressions of their bearing on your present 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 


87 


position and my father’s fate. When we have our case clear]}'' 
stated, as the lawyers say, we may consult as to the best course to 
be taken in your personal interest and in that of justice.” 

“IMothing' could be better. You remind me strangely of your 
poor father’s method of doing things — though it is no injustice to 
him to say that the son has learned to improve upon the lather.” 

The color came into the young man’s face at this compliment, 
which, from such a quarter, was no idle one; but he said, simply, 

” The thoughtful son may succeed to some of the accumulated 
wisdom of his father, as the thoughtless one too often does to his 
parent’s wealth. 1 deserve little credit if, living with such a man, 1 
have imbibed some of his spirit. But before 1 go any further, 1 
wish to discharge my mind of a matter which has, since you left me 
this afternoon, been weighing on it rather heavily. My lord, when 
1 called this morning in Grosvenor Place, 1 intended to have had an 
interview with the Countess of Tilbury.” 

The earl started, but was silent. He had learned this from Simp- 
son, and it had troubled him; but after the delicate explanation 
with young Barton, he would not himsell have broached the sub- 
ject. 

” 1 ask you to forgive me the intention — which, fortunately, was 
defeated. My brain was disordeied with grief and anxiety, and 1 
could hardly say w'hat 1 was going to tell her, or what precise ob- 
ject 1 had in view. Brooding over the business day and night, 1 had 
grown desperate. But tor your frank and well-timed visit, it is 
hard to say what grievous misunderstandings might not have 
plunged us all in ruin and confusion. Thank Heaven, my lord, 
for the inspiration which led you to my cliambers! Now 1 am able to 
ofler my poor services with a clear conscience, and will do my best 
to help to defeat this wicked conspiracy, which was aimed as well 
at your ci;edit and fortune as at my father’s life. The situation has 
become even more serious than you suspect.” 

’Well,” said the earl, gloomily, ” 1 must face it as bravely as 1 
may. For myself, 1 am near the end of life’s tether, and 1 might 
manage to endure the penalty of wrong-doing, severe as would be 
the wounds to my pride and egoism. But — there are others; it 
would be hard to leave a soiled escutcheon to my heir, though God 
knows there is little chance of his maintaining its luster! And there 
are Blanche and Charlie— there is my sister — and poor Tilbury, who 
already looks upon me as a father — and with whom 1 had hopes of 
knitting a closer relationship— it would be dreadful to bring them 
all under the shadow of dishonor — more dreadful to feel myself dis- 
honored in their eyes — and with such a name and after sucii a career 
as mine!” 

The peer sighed heavily, not looking at his visitor, but gazing 
about distressfully while he spoke. George Barton’s face became 
deadly pale as the earl unconsciously uttered the fatal words which 
reminded his hearer of the insuperable nature of the barrier stand- 
ing between him and the fair woman who had only a few’ minutes 
before inspired him with new life. In saving the earl’s reputation 
he would be helping to make that barrier more firm, more insur- 
mountable than ever. For an instant a horrible thought crossed his 
mind, only to be dismissed wdth a shudder of horror and shame that 


88 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


it should ever have occurred to hiui. The daughter of the humili- 
ated peer would be a much more attainable object for the humble 
commoner than the brilliant beauty who carried in her proud 
dignity the untarnished coronet of the Selbys. But this was only 
one of those lurid flashes from the bottomless pit of evil which 
sometimes jerk their livid light across the mental firmament of the 
purest souls, and remind them that they are human — that is to say, 
simply a compound of good and bad. It was only a harmless dart 
of temptation, which strikes and glints ofl the polished armor of a 
strongly-tempered virtue. Yet for a few moments George Barton 
could not speak, for the earl’s words had seemed to put an extin- 
guisher on a glimmering hope. 

He spoke up, however, at length, bravely: 

“ You will permit me to say, 1 trust, my lord, that 1 share your 
anxiety in regard to — to those who are so dear to you. Lord Charles 
has always been my fiiend — Tilbury is one of my most valued 
acquaintances— my mother’s affection for Lady Blanche would be a 
sufficient motive to urge me to make any sacrifice to shield her from 
any preventable sorrow. 1 must do my duty to my father’s memory, 
who is dead, and to my mother, who is living, but 1 hope that may 
be reconciled with a devotion to your interesis — and those of your 
lamily— since it is clear you desire to insure immediately, and at 
any sacrifice, an honorable escape from your perilous situation,” 

” That is all 1 desire. 1 told your father to devise the means ot 
full and prompt reparation,” said the earl, who, in the trouble of 
his own thoughts, had not noted the agitation of Barton’s manner. 

” My father never doubted it. 1 wish his son had been as gener- 
ous and experienced a friend,” said the latter. 

” Say no more about that, George,” said the peer, kindly. ” Y’ou 
see, for years, your father read my mind as in a glass. He was the 
only man, 1 believe, who ever thoroughly knew me — more shame 
to me for ever having suspected him! 1 opened my heart to him 
very freely— especially ot late— since my wife’s death. You might 
inherit his sagacity and ability, his sincerity, his candor — 1 thinK 
you have — but you could not succeed to his experience, to his con- 
fidence in a man whose character had been under his eyes — very 
keen eyes, too— for more than twenty-five years.” 

‘‘Thank you, my lord. You are generous, and 1 shall try to 
show my appreciation of it. Shall I now slate the facts as 1 under- 
stand them?” 

The earl nodded, and Barton, taking out a note-book, said, 

” I have jotted down here some memoranda which will assist 
me: 

‘‘In 187-, almost exactly eight years ago, the late Earl of Til- 
bury, your brother-in-law\ died, leaving as sole issue a son, the 
present Edward, Earl of Tilbury. He left immense landed estates 
and a large personalty, the whole valuation of his property amount- 
ing roughly to a million and three-quarters. You, my lord, and 
Mr. Eairway, the banker, were appointed executors and guardians 
of the minor, then over thirteen years of age. Your brother-in-law 
was a man of great shrewdness and with a taste tor speculation— 
not only in lands, but in finance. Shortly before he died he had 
purchased two estates which lay in the neighborhood of his great 


A WEEK or PASSION. 


89 


Devonshire propert}'. They were called Pelton and Eton :l\Iarley, 
They cost together £550,000. tie paid down of this sum £300,000, 
and by the agreement ot purchase, the balance, namely, £250,000, 
was left on mortgage at 3 1-2 per cent., which charge the earl, who 
had calculated his resources very cleverly, arranged should tall due 
in 188-, that is tbis very year — about the time when his son would 
come of age. It is, 1 believe, in connection with the payment ot 
this charge at its maturity that your lordship’s difficulties arose.” 

The earl assented by a movement of the head. 

” Those difficulties arose, as lawyers would say, out of the non- 
feasance, misteasance, and malfeasance of Pollard it Pollard, who 
had been the solicitors to the testator, and wffiom you and Mr. Fair- 
way had continued as solicitors to the estate.” 

” \es — and who practically became its managers. 1 must ex- 
plain to you how that arose. When Lord Tilbury died, and left 
me one of the executors, 1 felt obliged to accept the trust, although 
it was a very onerous one. It seemed to be the less burdensome 
that Fair'way was my co-executor, and no abler man could have 
been found to take such a duty upon him. I vas deeply engaged 
in politics, a man in society, oveivvhelmed with anxieties in regard 
to my own estate, which you know is a very large and troublesome 
one. It required all your father’s time and energies to superintend 
it, and I never grudged him the £1500 to £2000 a year he got for it 
— for it was well earned. Fairway and I, therefore, arranged to 
divide the duty — he undertook to supervise Pollard & Pollard in 
the administration of the estate, while I agreed to take my nephew 
in hand, and look to his education and preparation for the high 
position he w^as to fill.” 

“ He will do justice to 5 mur lordship’s care and allection, ” 

” He is a good fellow every way, audit he lives through this crisis 
1 predict for him a brilliant career. 1 wish my eldest son were like 
him! But to proceed. Just as P'airway had begun to master all 
the details of the administration — about eight months after my 
brother-in-law’s death— he died. It was a grievous loss to me—I 
was left alone with this colossal trust on my hands. However, 
Pollard & Pollard were an eminent firm— reputed rich, beyond sus- 
picion, and trusted by everybody. I thought 1 could do nothing 
better than leave the entire management in their hands, endeavoring 
from time to time to follow up wliat they were doing.” 

“ Precisely, my lord, and no blame can attach to you for trusting 
them, especially as you w^ere liable tor their mistakes if they made 
any. i^evertheless, out of this confidence sprung all your troubles, 
and I understand it arose in this way. The late Earl of Tilbury 
was intimate with some ot the princes of finance in the City, and 
liaving a large ready capital always disposable, often took part in 
some of their combinations. Among others he had a friend in Mr. 
Pinxton, the eminent American banker, who, shortly before the 
earl’s death, proposed to him to join in a large operation projected 
by an American group. They had fixed their eyes on a railway 
called the ‘ New Aork, Stockton, and Tallahassee Railroad,’ -udiicli 
was at the moment in an insolvent condition, but which, owing to 
projected lines, was destined to become an important link in con- 
necting the Atlantic States with the West. The object ot the group 


90 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


was to buy up all the shares in this railway, and Pinxton advised 
the earl to go into it. After sending his broker confidentially to 
New York, tbe earl satisfied himself that the movement was bond 
fide and secure. He invested £60,000 in the shares, at an average 
of £25 per share— the par being $250, or over £50 — which gave 
him 2400 shares, and his calculation was that within three years 
they would be worth £60 a share— or, in other words, that his £60,- 
000 would realize £144,000. This money he had intended to apply 
in part payment of the charges left on Pelton and Eton-Marley. 

“•Well, m 5’' lord, the earl’s anticipation turned out strictly cor- 
rect. Three years after his death the stock stood at £60 — went to 
£65, £66, even £70; it aflerw’ard fell to £50, and rose again to £66. 
The earl had left directions in his will that the shares were to be 
held till they reached £60, and then sold. It was your duty as ex- 
ecutor to have sold them when the opportunity arose. It was the 
duty of Pollard <& Pollard, who had the will before them, who had 
the shares in their possession, and had undertaken the responsi- 
bility of managing the estate tor you as executor, to have reminded 
you of this obligation It had escaped your attention. They never 
gave you the slightest inkling of the matter.” 

“ IS ever — till last December, five 3’^ears too late, and when the 
shares had fallen to £12 per share.’' 

“ They told you, 1 believe, that the matter had also escaped their 
attention?” 

“ Yes, certainly. 1 threatened to hold them responsible.” 

“ We shall see about that directly. The effect of their— neglect? 
— at all events 1 will so term it lor the present— was very serious 
for you. Had the shares been sold when the earl intended and 
directed them to be sold, namely, at £60, they would have realized 
nearly £150,000 five years since. The money would have been re- 
invested, and would have been applicable to the payment of the 
charge falling due in January this year on the two estates. When 
Pollard & Pollard suddenly sprung the matter on you the shares 
were down to £12, at which price they would not have realized 
£30,000; in other words, through their actual ‘ neglect ’—and j'our 
constructive negligence— you were personally liable to make up to 
the Tilbury eetate'at least £110,000. In addition to that there was 
five years’ interest, which, compounded at the end ot each year, at 
the legal rate of five per cent., brought up your liability to nearly 
£185,000.* You were notified ot this monstrous liability early in 
December. The young lord came of age in February — the £250,- 
000 for Pelton and Eion-Marley had to be paid at the end of Janu- 
ary. You had less than two months in which to make up this pro- 
digious sum.” 

“ 1 had exactly seven weeks. The news came upon me like a 
thunder-clap. 1 suppose your father has told you what my position 
was at that moment? For the third lime 1 had had to pay Layton’s 
turf and other debts— over £70,000. My money was locked up in 
the Cleveland mines and in the North Kensington estate, which 
your father was developing; my own expenses, as a Cabinet minis- 


* The amount, calculated on the £144.000, would bring the exact total to 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


91 


ter, for three years and otherwise, had been very heavy. Your fa- 
ther had raised with great difficulty £100,000 in November to meet 
the more pressing engagements, and he had warned me that the 
drain must stop. He required a large floating capital for the Cleve- 
land mines, but he said that in time, if 1 would give him fair play, 
those and the Kensington property would bring me out all right, 
and leave my landed estates unimpaired. He was, as usual, firm 
and candid, and frightened me terribly by threatening to throw up 
the agency unless 1 could manage to keep down expenses. During 
all the period of our relations we had never been so near a serious 
quarrel. And upon this came Pollards’ demand for over £180,000. 
You can imagine my distress. 1 was nearly frantic. It seems 
ridiculous for a man with a rent-roll of seventy thousand a year to 
say so; but you see 1 have sunk over a quarter of a million in those 
mines, which are now — only now— beginning to pay their way, and 
1 have paid £300,000 for Layton during the last four years. Bo that 
when this came upon me I was utterly nonplused. 1 did not dare 
to go to your father. 1 thought he would leave me in despair— a 
stupid idea, as was afterward proved.” 

” 1 believe also that Pollards objected to his intervention in the 
matter.” 

‘‘Well, 1 had told them very frankly what my position was, not 
only generally, but in regard to him, and I see now that they took 
advantage of my difficulties. 1 suppose they did not want him to 
become aware of the ‘ laches ’ — 1 think 3 mu call il? — of which they 
had been guilty.” 

” My lord,” said George Barton, ‘‘ you will see directly that the 
term is utterly inadequate to describe their conduct. As my knowl- 
edge of what ensued upon this is somewhat hazy and imperfect, per- 
haps you will have no objection to tell me, in your own words, what 
took place between you and Pollard & Pollard?” 

” Certainly, 1 will do so,” said the earl, getting up, and walking 
up and down the room to collect his thoughts. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE PEER AND HIS SOLICITORS. 

“Before,” said the earl, “ 1 detail the incidents leading up to 
the transaction which has caused me so much sorrow and humilia- 
tion, let me shortly describe the condition in which 1 found myself 
when that unpleasant surprise was sprung upon me by the Pol- 
lards. 

“ 1 owed the estate £185,000, in reduction of which there were 
the shares, worth, at the time, say £30,000, so that 1 had to make 
up the sum of over £150,000. The Pollards, however, told me the 
shares were rising rapidly again, and that 1 had better hold them. 
Tliey turned out to be correct in their judgment— to-day thev are at 
£25, and would realize £60,000. Well, the charges on Tilbury’s 
two estates in Devonshire, amounting to £250,000, would have to be 
paid at the end of January. When the Pollards informed me of 
the oversight, there was lying to the credit of the Tilbury estate in 


92 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


the Bank of England about £180,000; they suggested that when my 
nephew came ot age he would require to have a fair amount of 
ready money at his disposal, and 1 agreed with them that £80,000 
should be left for that purpose, leaving the £100,000 available 
toward the payment of the mortgage. It was clear, therefore, that, 
1 must make up the other £150,000 at once, or else the mistake we 
had made between us would have to be disclosed to Tilbury; it 
might get out, and it would have been excessively unpleasant, that 
such a cross act of negligence should be attributed to me in dealing 
will! such an estate as that of niy brother-in-law. In fact, my aimur 
propre demanded that the matter should be made right at once. 1 
could not allow Tilbury’s interests to suffer for a blunder for which 
1 was morally and legally responsible— I could not have it said that 
on the day when he came of age I was a large debtor to the estate 
1 had been administering. The Pollards, also, were anxious that the 
matter should be arranged because its exposure laid them open, at 
the very least, to an imputation of negligence. This explains what 
took place afterward — their feverish impatience— their desire to keep 
your father oui of the business— and so on.” 

” Not entirely, my lord,” said George Barton, significantly. 

” They had other reasons for that, of which 1 will tell jmu directly.” 

‘‘ At all events, that is how 1 look upon their action. Of course 
1 w^as at my wits’ end how to raise the money, especially wdthout 
your father’s assistance. Pollard & Pollard, however, in what 1 
thought at the time to be a very handsome manner, told me if I 
w’ouid leave the matter in their hands they would raise me the money 
for a year or tw^o, simply on my personal bond, and a deposit of the 
title-deeds of my Kensington estate. 1 had the deeds here in Lou-, 
don in my sale. 1 had nothing to do but hand them over, t 
breathed more freely. 1 thought the matter had been arranged, for 
a time at least. My estates are immense, and there was no question 
of their being able eventually to bear this heavy strain. Even if 1 
were called on to make a sacrifice, 1 should still be a rich man. 

‘‘ But about ten days before the time fixed for the payment of the 
£250,000 to the mortgagees 1 received a visit from Mr. Charles Pol- 
lard, the junior member of the firm — you probably have seen him, 
a gentleman of rather priggish airs, and with an oily manner, but 
concealing under his affectation an extraordinary cunning and 
shrewdness. 

“ With a good deal of circumlocution and many professions of 
regret he informed me that, owing to the tightness of the nioney- 
marxet, the clients to whom they had looked lo advance the money 
declined to do so on the proposed security. 

” 1 was thunderstruck. Here they had allowed me to remain un- 
der the impression, until almost the last moment, that the matter 
\vas settled. 1 had not restricted them as to terms, and of course 
they would have charged me a heavy commission. Now they told 
me the money was still to find. 1 am afraid 1 w'as rather angry. 

1 expressed myself somewhat freely. Mr. Charles Pollard simply 
grimaced, shrugged his shoulders, and said, 

” ‘ I assure your lordship we have done our best— our very best. 
We have left no stone unturned. M'e thought the matter was 
settled, but you see bankers are always unreliable— very skittish 1 


A WEEK OP PASSIOK. 


93 


When the bank-rate goes up they draw in their horns— like snails, 
my lord, like snails you know; there is no getting them out of their 
shells.’” 

The peer unconsciously imitated Mr. Charles Pollard’s manner in 
a way that forced a smile fiom George Barton’s grave face. 

“ ‘ Devil take j^our bankers, Mr. Pollard,’ I said; ‘ lhavenothing 
to do with bankers or bank-rates. You promised me faithfully to 
find the money. Why have you not done so— or at least why not 
let me know sooner that you couldn’t?’ 

“ ‘ We regret, your lordship, we are deeply grieved, your lordship, 
but it was quite impossible— quite. The security, you see, is* not 
quite up to the mark. Now, if we had been able to ofier a clean 
mortgage, for instance, of your Kensington estate — not a mere de- 
posit of the deeds — we might have managed it — on terms — on terms, 
my lord. But just now- capital is skittish, capital is very skittish, 
my lord — like snails- everybody drawing in his horns.’ 

” ‘ You rather mix your metaphors, Mr. Charley,’ 1 said, ‘ but 
1 understand you. Well, 1 must have the money. 1 will grant a 
mortgage on my Kensington estate. But it is a complicated affair; 
there are a lot of long leases already granted to builders, and new 
transactions taking place every week. Only Mr. George Barton is 
acquainted with the details— he has the entire management of the 
property. 1 will telegraph to him to come up at once,’ and 1 took 
a telegraph form to write the telegram immediately— you know 1 
am rather prompt in my movements. 

“ 1 don’t know why, but 1 remember 1 had a sort of impression 
that Mi. Pollard’s face turned paler at that moment. He hastened 
to interrupt me. 

“ ‘No, my lord, that is not advisable. If Mr. Barton is intro- 
duced into this business he must necessarily be informed of all the 
circumstances. Believe me, it is not your lordship’s interest just 
now that this matter should go beyond ourselves. I'hen, my lord, 
the character of our firm is at stake in this matter. VVe can not 
conceal from ourselves that this has been a very awkward and seri- 
ous oversight. Although we are advised by counsel that we are not 
in any way liable for the loss which has occurred, our professional 
reputation might be impugned — the circumstances would be mis- 
understood— perhaps misrepresented— even criminal suspicions ex- 
cited, to which we should be very sorry to see any one in your lord- 
ship’s position exposed, and— in fact, my lord— you will permit me 
to make an appeal to you— it is our mutual interest, I might say, 
your and our joint and several interest— that— just at this mornent 
— your ward coming of age — a great event in society — the termina- 
tion of one of the largest— quite colossal— administrations it has 
ever been our lot to conduct— your lordship’s brilliant success in 
discharging the grave and important duties of guardian — great 
festivities coming on -all the galaxy of society watching the event 
— it is — 1 may suggest — our joint and several interest, that— at all 
events for the present— this little matter should be kept between our- 
selves — should Weperdoo.^ 

“ ‘ This Jittle matter, as you call ii, Mr. Charles,’ 1 said, ‘ involves 
about a tenth of my whole fortune, and 1 confess 1 don’t see much 
m what you say. It will undoubtedly be very disagreeable for me 


94 


A WEEK OF PASSIOFT. 


that SO serious and disgraceful a neglect in the conduct of the admin- 
istration should come out just as we arc on the eve of my nephew’s 
majority. Barton, however, is not the man to talk about confi- 
dential business, or try to injure your reputation. But— find the 
money— otherwise there is no resource. If there is to be a mortgage. 
Barton must settle the deeds. True, as 1 have told you, 1 would 
* rather he knew nothing about it at this particular moment; but if 
you can not assist me 1 must send for him.’ 

“ ‘ My lord,’ he said, hitching his chair a little forward, and lean- 
ing over toward me in a confidential manner, ‘ we have not been so 
neglectful of your lordship’s interests as you imagine. "We have 
discussed this matter— my senior partner and relative, and 1— with 
great anxiety— and— we — have even taken action, which— subject of 
course to your lordship’s concurrence — might— in fact, 1 may con- 
fidently say to your lordship, will— relieve your lordship from your 
present embarrassment.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, w^ell!’ 1 said, ‘ Mr. Pollard, that is good news; why didn’t 
you say so at once? You would have saved me some anxiety, and 
the recording angel some unnecessary trouble!’ 

“ ‘Well, my lord, you see it is a durneyer resort; but you know 
that we have the honor of being the legal advisers to your lordship’s 
sister, the Countess of Tilbury.’ 

“ ‘ Good heavens!’ 1 cried, ‘ 1 hope you have not said anything 
about this to the countess!’ 

“ ‘ li is not likely, my lord, that people of our experience would 
disclose anything of a compromising character. But in the serious 
emergency which has arisen, it occurrea to us that, without being 
made o coorong with the actual state of affairs, our client, with whose 
position and ability to aid you we are professionally acquainted, 
might temporarily advance the money — or help us to raise it— so as 
to give us time to look about us—’ 

“ I interrupted him, 

“ ‘ I won’t hear of it, Mr. Pollard!’ I cried. ‘ I do not wish my 
sister’s affairs to be mixed up with mine, in any way. You may 
dismiss that idea at once.’ 

“ ‘ Pardon me, my lord/ he said. ‘ If that is your lordship’s last 
word, then 1 must inform you that we can not be of any further as- 
sistance to you. But your lordship has nor, heard yet wiiat our 
proposal is. 1 should tell you that 1 have been down to Linton and 
have seen her ladyship, and she has expressed her readiness to 
carry out our suggestion, provided your lordship gives it your sanc- 
tion.’ 

“ ‘ And what, Mr. Pollard,’ said 1, ‘ is this precious proposal?’ 

“ ‘ My lord, 1 explained the position to the countess in this way 
— hum — ha — in fact making, as you will observe, a very general 
statement of the actual facts— without, entering into unnecessary 
details. ] informed her ladyship that an unexpected call had arisen 
for a large sum of money to pay off charges about to become due 
on her son’s estates — that, until certain shares were realized, the es- 
tate could not furnish the mcmey required, except at a very great 
sacrifice— which — ah!— as your lordship will observe, is strictly 
wutbin the truth.’ 

“ ‘ It would be, Mr. Pollard,’ 1 said, ‘ if you added that the call 


A WEEK OF PASSIOFT. 


95 


had arisen upon me, that it was 1 who could not furnish the money 
except at a great sacrifice.’ So you see. Barton, I was quite alive 
to the moral phases of Mr. Charles Pollard’s statements to my sister. 
However, he avoided argument on that point. 

“ ‘ Forgive me, my lord,’ he said; ‘ I will finish. 1 added (hat it 
might take some time to realize the shares, though eventually the 
whole amount needed was sure to come in — of that we can not have 
the slightest doubt since you, my lord, are responsible for it. 1 
further stated that you, as executor of the estate, would become re- 
sponsible for the large sum vve required, if she would advance it or 
help us to raise it. She might give a charge on her ]i’'e interest in 
Linton Grange— it is not a pertect security, but with her known 
wealth and yours together it will do — for say £50,000. Then she 
has £55,000 in United States bonds, which could be deposited as 
collateral security for a further sum of £50,000, and she has £50,- 
000 or £60,000 on deposit at Coutts's. We ventured to put it in this 
way: that, as you had to incur the primary responsibility, it was 
only fair that she should come to your assistance. Meanwhile, of 
course, she would enjoy the revenues, and have interest on her 
money. If this could be arranged, and you would allow us to de- 
posit along with the charge on Linton your Kensington deeds, as 
security for your lordship’s bills or personal bond, we know a 
bank which will advance you the balance of cash required.’ 

“ 1 was very much startled,” pursued the earl, ” at such a propo- 
sition as this — so clearly immoral, notwithstanding Mr. Charles Pol- 
lard’s cunning way of putting it — emanating from a firm of such 
standing, and it ought to have put me on my guard. Indeed, 1 
showed my feeling, and put a veto on it at once, although he held 
under my nose a letter from the countess assenting to the proposal, 
nrovided 1 wrote her a note requesting her to carry it out. 1 sent 
him away, telling him he must find some other way of raising the 
money. He quietly asked me to think it over for twenty-four 
hours, no doubt expecting that during that time the devil would 
have a chance at me. Alas! he was right. Instead of going to my 
sister and telling her the whole story, and getting her sympathy as 
well as her help, 1 allowed myself to do an act which was mean, 
false, and despicable. 1 am ashamed to say 1 wrote her a note, 
saying, ‘ 1 could advise her to act as Pollard & Pollard had recom- 
mended,’ thus affecting to cheat myself by throwing the responsi- 
bility on them, and, as you know, to this hour the countess does 
not know the truth. I'he only security she has is my personal 
undertaking, which, it is true, is good enough, but you see the fact 
is this— what she supposes she has advanced to her son’s estate is 
really advanced to me— her mortgage and bonds and money have 
been obtained from her on false pretenses — pretenses made to her 
jointly by her brother and her solicitors, both of whom are equally 
amenable to criminal proceedings— ami equally deserving of pun- 
ishment. 

“ 1 can not describe to you— you can not imagine — the torture 
and anguish of mind 1 have endured since that miserable business. 
It is not only that 1 am placed at the mercy of two vulgar accom- 
plices, it is the degradation of my moral dignity, the blotch upon a 


96 A WEEK OF PASSION. 

hitherto untarnished honor, and a gnawing sense of the baseness 
of my conduct. 

“ Etill 1 did my best to minimize my moral culpability. 1 made 
stipulations from which 1 would not swerve, though the Pollards 
put an immense pressure on me. I insisted that the countess’s 
money and bonds were to be handed to me, and 1 gave my own re- 
ceipt for them. I lodged the bonds at my own bankeis, obtained a 
loan on them and paid the money in myself to the credit of Til- 
bury’s estate. The mortgage of my sister’s interest wjis made out, 
not to a third party, but to me. 1 retained the deed in my own 
custod3% executing a deed charging it over to, and engaging to hold 
it in trust for, the baniv which advanced the money— a miserable, 
complicated arrangement, but the bank was a Scotch bank, and ac- 
cepted it on condition 1 deposited my Kensington deeds as well. 
Thus 1 tried to secure my sister’s property from being attached ex- 
cept through me. 

“ You know what followed. The charge on Tilbury’s property 
was paid off. But in spite of all my efiorts the administration ac- 
counts were not ready wiien he came of age. Pollard & Pollard 
excused themselves on the plea that the estates were so immense 
and the accounts so large and complicated that it would take 
months to get them all in order. Six months having passed without 
the accounts being even prepared, still less audited, 1 became anx- 
ious. Tilbury, who is a long-headed fellow, with all his affectation 
of laissez allef, also wished everything closed up, for my sake as 
well as his own. He had great confidence in me and in your father, 
and he proposed that Baiton should be asked to take the matter in 
hand, and with tlie help ot an accountant audit all the accounts as 
a matter ot form. It was impossible for me to refuse. So a fort- 
nigl'.t ago 1 sent for your father to London, and then, for the first 
time, llmburdened my mind to him of the whole business. 

“ Your father was terribly grieved and wounded, both by my 
moral weakness and my breach of confidence toward him. Never- 
theless, he show'ed none ot that priggish severity which is assumed 
by moralists who have never been tempted in judging of the delin- 
quencies of others from their own eminence. He simply said that 
the situation must be changed immediately, and manfully set to 
work to find the means of doing it with the least possible sacrifice. 
He insisteil that the countess’s property should be released at an}' 
cost. He depleted the floating capital ot my coal and iron mines to 
free the United States bonds at my bankers, and he resolved to raise 
a large loan, which was easily obtainable, by a mortgage of my 
Kensington estate, for which three years ago, Lynns, the great con- 
tractors, offered me £240,000. Then of course tlie sale of the Stock- 
ton Railroad shares at £25, to which they had risen, -would have 
provided £60,000. Meantime he began a careful scrutiny of the ac- 
counts and revenues of Tilbury’s estates. When 1 left Loudon, only 
eight or nine days ago. I understood that he had nearly concluded 
all the arrangements for relieving me from my equivocal position 
with and through the Pollards, with whom he said it would be bad 
policy under the circumstances to come to a rupture. 

“ Conceive, then. Barton, of iny astonishment, chagrin, and anx- 
iety, when, on returning lo town on Thursday last, expressly to 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


97 


meet him, by his own appointment, he failed to put in an appear- 
ance! While I was wailing here impatiently for him the news ar- 
rived of poor Tilbury’s accident, and 1 hurried oft to Grosvenor 
Place. Returning here late ui the evening, 1 found you asking for 
news of your lather. 1 was half out of my mind. I could imagine 
no excuse for His disappearance— a man of his staid and active 
character— in broad daylight, in the metropolis. 

“ Next morning Mr. Charles Follaid called on me. He professed 
to know nothing of your father’s disapjiearance, and seemed to be 
greatly surprised when 1 informed him of it. He stated that Bar- 
ton had not yet handed them over the papers, as 1 had authorized 
him to do, and that therefore nothing definite was settled. Every- 
thing he said was calculated to plunge me into deeper and deeper 
despair.” 

” Hal that was their object, my lord!” cried Barton, excitedly. 

“ So 1 begin to suspect,” said the earl. “ He told me the bank 
directors had intimated that they would call in the money. Well, 
with all this anxiety 1 had Tilbury’s critical condition on my mind, 
and my sister’s grief and trouble. 1 spent most of Thursday in 
Grosvenor Place. In the afternoon Charles Pollard came there. 
He said there was no doubt your father had ‘levanted;’ that he 
must have taken the United States bonds with him, and so on — that 
you had called, but in the circumstances they had declined to see 
you, and he advised me to leave everything to them, and hold no 
communication with 3 ^ 011 . My mental condition wuis such that for 
the time 1 hardly had any judgment of my own, and allowed things 
to drift as they would. 1 flatter myself 1 have a pretty cool head 
and not a very soft brain, but this sudden confluence of disasters 
nearly proved loo much for me. Here for four days 1 have in- 
wardly sudered the tortures of the'damned, while 1 was obliged to be 
consoling to my poor sister, composed before my children and serv- 
ants, cool and bright to every one 1 met. 1 have had to play a 
comedy while my heart was bleeding, and to-day — 1 had — even — ” 

The’earl stopped. He could say no more, for emotion choked his 
voice when he recalled 5 ^oung Barton’s dreadful suspicion. For a 
few minutes the scene was painful enough. Even the hardened 
cynic must sometimes yield to the moral forces wdiich, wdth unerr- 
ing and irresistible attraction, draw^ down on his head the conse- 
quences of wrong or ill-judged action; and the truth w^as that Lord 
Selby's cynicism was more superficial than profound. It was the 
toughened skin which results from exposure to the air and constant 
friction in society, rather than the indurated substance of a heart 
ossified or ]:>etrified by selfishness, pride, and ill -nature. 

“My lord,” Barton at length ventured to say in an agitated 
voice, ” you said— you promised—” 

“ Yes— yes— 1 know' what you would sa 3 ^” cried the peer; ” for- 
give me, but, just at that moment, wdien 1 was running up the tale 
of niy troubles— somehow— involuntarily— that came in as the cli- 
max! Believe me, 1 did not wish to pain or reproach you. Let it 
pass, and let us go on with our melancholy task; 1 see it is near 
midnight alread}'.” 

From this moment, as George Barton could not but see and feel, 
liis moral position vis-a-vis the earl w'as assured. Young as he was, 
4 


98 


A WEEK OF PASSIOFT. 


this old, experienced, and haughty \vorldling had made him a con- 
fession, had exliibited to him his weakness, had placed him on the 
footing at once of his confidant and his adviser. In such a position 
a strong man gains stienetli, a weak one only develops his feeble- 
ness. George Barton became more cool and assured; he rose to the 
height of the trust which the earl seemed to be disposed to place in 
him; he felt that a few short hours had altered their relations, and 
made him necessary to the man who had been so strong and was 
now so weak. He said, 

“ When my poor father was on his way to meet you on Thurs- 
day last he had in his hands the proof of far greater wickedness 
than any you are yet aware of. ]\’ly lord, may 1 ask did it never 
occur to you that the anxiety of Pollard & Pollard to carry out that 
singular and complicated arrangement with ihe Countess of Tilbury 
was very suspicious?” 

” Not particularly,” replied the earl. 

“You see,” said j'oung Barton, “the security you put up for 
the loan they obtained for you was a very questionable one from a 
lender’s point of view. Deposit of title-deeds — hypothecation of 
Lady Tilbury’s life charge to you — and your charging it over while 
retaining her deed — did it never strike you that they showed an 
undue— a feverish eagerness to get some arrangement made by hook 
or by crook?” 

” No. Pollards never show any ‘ fever’— they are are too cool for 
that. 1 did not observe anything beyond a natural anxiety to help 
an important client, as well as to save themselves, if possible, from 
an exposure of their own gross carelessness.” 

” Well, 1 have to inform you that, at the very time when these 
people were pressing and worrying you to find that money, there 
ought to have been lying to the ciedit of the Tilbury administral ion, 
in the Bank of England, over one hundred thousand pounds more 
than was lying there— part of the rents and other revenues collected 
by Pollard & Pollard during the past five years, and never paid in 
to the Bank of England, but, on the contrary, misappropriated by 
them.” 

” Good God!” 

‘‘ Yes; my father found it out last week. Had he seen you on 
that fatal afternoon he would haVe informed you of this monstrous 
and damnaole tact. All the time that these scoundrels were giving 
you so much anxiety— pretending that it was a matter of life and 
death to find the money —forcing you to join them in practicing a ^ 
deception on your sister— there ought to have been lying in the bank 
sufficient money to pay otf the charges on Pel ton and Eton-Marley, 
and to leave you free to make up at your leisure the deficiency on 
the American railway stocks.” 

” What!” shouted the earl, jumping to his feet. 

‘‘ They admitted it to my father on Monday, lust week.” 

‘‘ Admitted it! And this morning they faced me as confidently 
as if 1 had been the knave and they were the victims.” 

“ Ah, my lord!” said George Barton, his face flushing with in- 
dignation,* ‘ they may have thought that the only person who knew 
it was no longer able to give evidence.” 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 99 

“Another hundred thousand i” groaned the earl, sinking down 
into his seat. 

“ Do not be alarmed, my lord. They paid the money with in- 
terest, altogether over £115,000, into the bank on Tuesday morning. 
Row they raised it Heaven knows, but they are reputed lo be very 
rich. They informed Lord Tilbury of it by a letter, in which they 
stated that these were back rents which had not been accounted lor. 
The Earl of Tilbury was so astonished by the magnitude of the sum 
that he sent on their letter to my father. He received it on the fatal 
Thursday morning; he put it in his pocket to show you; it perished 
with him. Lord Tilbury asked him to get an explanation of it. 
On Tuesday afternoon they went on their knees to my father; they 
implored him not to divulge it — to assist them in covering up their 
delinquency, now that they had made restitution. Possibly he 
might have done so— he was a merciful man— hut unfortunately tor 
them— fatally lor him, 1 verily believe — his suspicions had been 
aroused in another direction. 

“ You remember my lather thought it advisable before he found 
out this new malfeasance to emplo}' them to raise the loan on the 
mortgage, and moreover they had represented to him that brokers 
with whom they had relations could place the American railway 
shares at £25, which w’ould go a long way toward relieving you 
from your liability. Consequently, you instructed my father to 
hand them over the countess’s mortgage deed, w^hich they would 
receive, as her solicitors, in order that it might be extinguished, and 
her United States bonds, which they were to return to safe-keeping 
at Coutts’s. Neither y ju nor my lather had then seen any ground 
lor doubting that the hrni were thoroughly solvent, and trustworthy 
in 1 heir accounts. This had uniortunatelj^ been done. My father 
showed me their receipt ; 1 myself made a copy of the list of papers 
— a list w’hich 1 have at the Temple, as 1 told you this morning. 
AYell, my lord, my father having some business with your brokers, 
wLo were also accustomed to act for him in his small affairs, was 
in their office in the City'-, and happening to asii the price of ‘ Stock- 
tons, ’ he mentioned that a large quantily- w'ere in the market. ‘ Oh, 
yes,’ they said, ‘ we deal in them a good deal. Your friend Charles 
Pollard, the solicitor, is an immense operator in them, and has been 
lor years. This is in strict confidence, but Mill, his broker, told us 
that Pollard hud made a mint ol moneys on them.’ My father held 
his tongue. He went back to Pollards’— it was on Wednesday 
afternoon- and made an excuse for asking to see the packet of pa- 
lmers ho had handed thena a few day^s back, and also the certificates 
of the Stockton shares, which were among the securities in Iheir 
hands. He said he wished to make out transfers. They' w’-ere anx- 
ious, 1 suppose, to conciliate him, as they wished to induce him to 
keep quiet regarding the accounts. At all events they made no ob- 
jections, and produced the papers. My father turned over the cer- 
tificates, and saw the dates of them. The stock w’ould have been 
transferred to your name as sole executor at the time wiien Mr, 
Fairw'ay died — that is nearly seven years and a half ago. These 
certificates, which my lather examined, were in your name as exe- 
cutor. and were dated only three years since.” 

“Oh!” 


100 


A WEKK OF PASSIOX. 


“ Did you ever sigu a transfer for those shares?” 

“ Never,” 

“ 'The shares, then, had been transferred and re-transferred— in 
other w'ords, some one had forged your name to the transfers— some 
one who, no doubt, in the meantime was speculating in those shares 
— some one, very likely, who had sold them out at £60 or £70, and 
who, three years since, bought them in for the Tilbury estate at £20 
or less— and thus saddled the unfortunate executor with a loss of 
over £100,000. My lord, do you wonder if from this fact 1 draw 
the simple and brutal conclusion that Mr. Charles Pollard, a large 
speulator it seems in these shares — having, perhaps, when they were 
at a high figure, speculated for a fall, been caught ‘ short ’ of them 
— ‘ borrowed ’ them from the Tilbury estate— delivered them, let us 
say, at 60, and, continuing to speculate, at length bought them back 
again at a low figure, taking care all the time not to remind you 
th^at they were in existence?” 

” Why,” cried the earl in the utmost indignation, “ I never heaid 
of such a thing. Such rascality — ” he suddenly checked himself, 
a flush suffused his pale cheek, his head dropped, his voice fell — 
” but who am 1,” he said, in a low voice, ” that I should cast stones 
at them?” 

Nothing could have proved more thoroughly the true, fine temper 
of the earl’s metal than his sensitiveness to his own fault, and the 
sincere anguish of his repentance. Young Barton’s heart was 
touched with pity and admiration while he watched the candid 
emotions of the quondam cynic. He hastily sought to divert the 
peer’s mind from the painful topic. 

” My poor father,” he continued, ” told me when he came home 
that he had committed a great mistake. He should have said noth- 
ing about the matter; he ought to have kept his discovery, to be re- 
vealed at a later period, after he had had lime to verify the facts by 
a reference to the transfer otfice of the company in New York. Un- 
happily, the words escaped him; 

” ‘ How is it that these certificates are dated only three years ago? 
Has the earl ever transferred them?’ 

” He told me that Mr. Charles Pollard, who alone was with him, 
turned red and blue, but tried to brazen it out! 

” ‘ Ohl’ he replied lo my father, ‘ the company made a new issue 
of certificates, and we exchanged the old ones for these.’ 

‘‘ Of course my father saw through that flimsy pretext. A scene 
followed, in which the elder Pollard, who was called in, joined. 
They tried to bluster it off— threatened my father with proceedings 
for defamation, and so on. He left them, after an agitated inter- 
view, telling them he should sift the matter to the bottom. You 
would have heard of it from his own lips on Thursday afternoon, 
had he lived to tell you of it!” 

” Why, this is unheard of— terrible! They are subject to a crim- 
inal prosecution!” 

” 'i’o a criminal prosecution— lo be struck off the rolls— to lose 
the greater part of their fortune— to be dishonored and broken be- 
yond redemption.” 

“But it shall be done! It shall be done! I will give you full 
powers. Whatever it costs me, it shall be done!” 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


101 


George Barton hesitated a moment. He did not like to remind 
the earl again ot his own (compromised situation, of the disclosures 
that must be the inevitable consequence of a prosecution of these 
men. That thought was never absent from the 5 ’oung man’s- mind. 
It was weighing upon it like a nightmare. Justice to the dead 
would drag down consequences on the heads of the living— on this 
nobleman, become in one short day his friend — and on others, at 
whose sorrow and dishonor George’s heart would bleed to death. 

He pointed out to the Earl of Selby now precarious the position 
was in which he stood, and how strongly intrenched was the posi- 
tion ot the enemy. By the elder Barton’s death, the only witness 
besides the earl himself, who was tainted by complicity in one 
fraudulent transaction, was forever silenced. Ihe receipt for the 
mortgages, the bonds, was destroyed. These documents were in 
their power. If, as the earl had said, the}’’ now denied having re- 
ceiveci them, it was clear that they meant to destroy them or keep 
them out of the way. Lastly, they still had the earl under their 
thumb; indeed, more completely than ever. They had his Kensing- 
ton title-deeds, his bond for £75,000; and as solicitors for the 
Countess ot Tilbury they could compel the earl to make restitu- 
tion of the United States bonds which had disappeared. 

“ But,” cried the earl, ‘‘ with the collateral evidence which you 
are able to supply we can soon prove the facts!” 

” That is very doubtful. Mine is only hearsay evidence. Re- 
member, my lord, firstly, that they are under the impression that a 
knowledge of these facts was confined to themselves, you, and my 
father— and of some of the most damning tacts, to my father and 
themselves.” 

” 1 told them this morning,” said the earl, biting his lip at the rec- 
ollection of the fatal mistake he had unconsciously committed, 
“ that you were acquainted with all the facts, and had a copy of the 
receipt.” 

“ That is a pity,” said Barton, looking grave. ‘‘ It weakens our 
position to let them know what our case is. However, they did not 
know it on Thursday, when my father was— was put out of the 
way. You see that, my lord?” 

” Perfectly.” 

“You see that men in the critical position in which they were 
placed, believing that George Barton was the only man who knew 
except yourself— whose mouth they may have believed they could 
keep shut—” 

The earl started. George Barton paused. He saw a vivid flash 
of illumination pass over the earl’s face. In truth the earl had re- 
called the circumstances of his interview with the solicitors in tho 
morning— their strange hints and their mysterious manner. Eiad 
they then meant him to understand that he and they were equally 
interested in the closing of Ueorge Barton’s mouth forever? Was it 
possible that having made him, the earl, a principal in a misde- 
meanor, they had thought of trapping him into becoming an accessory 
after the fact to a felony? He could hardly think it, but, if so, 
thank Heaven they had failed. His language and bearing had been 
too candid for them! 


102 


A AVEEK OF PASSIOif. 


“ Had anytliins: occurred to you?” said George, who had been 
w^ailing tor the earl to speak. 

Yes, a cuTious idea; but 1 can not belie re it to be more than a 
suspicion. Do you know that, on reviewing the particulars ot the 
interview I had with them this morning, 1 seem to have a sort ot 
feeling that both the partners were on the verge of making me some 
important disclosure, which they concealed, possibly owing to some- 
thing 1 said, or to my manner, wiiich was very severe and defiant?” 

” Why,” said George Barton, “ it appears to be only an impres- 
sion you have, but it is important, Possibl}" they may have been 
alarmed and put upon their guard by your statement that 1 was 
acquainted with the details.” 

“Possibly,” said the earl, with a puzzled expression. “How- 
ever, 1 interrupted Amu.” 

“ 1 was simply going to say it is quite conceivable that, when 
they were threatened with exposure, they thought they had only my 
father and you to fear, and — 1 can not help the suspicion — he may 
have fallen a victim to that idea.” 

“ it is a horrible suspicion, George Barton. Bad as they are, 1 
hardly dare permit, myself to entertain it. But still, as you say, if 
motive has anything to do with crime, thej" had the strongest reasons 
for wishing him out of the way.” 

“ You see 3mu must try to realize the position as it would have 
been to-day had 1 been totally ignorant ot what had taken place. 
You had intrusted those papers and bonds to my father’s keeping. 
They had disappeared with him. 1 could have told you nothing 
about them. 1 am convinced your own good sense and generous 
cootidence in George Barton would have led jmu, as soon as you 
had recovered from the shock to nerves and brain which you had 
experienced, to reject the theory. 

“ But that he had gone off with the securities there was still open 
the theory that my father had been entrapoed, murdered, and robbed 
by some persons who knew that he had the bonds in his possession. 
There would have been nothing to prove that Pollard & Pollard 
had ever received those papers, since the receipt had perished with 
my father. The certificates, with the damning evidence of their 
dates, would also have disappeared on some pretext or other, and 
you having no cause to suspect anything wrong there, application 
would have been made in due time lor new certificates, and the 
chances were a thousand to one against jmur ever learning anything 
about the dates of the lost ones. As regarded their restitution of 
the misappropriated money, they could easily have thrown dust in 
jmur eyes by recasting the accounts, and possibly by suggesting 
some new accountant or fellow-solicitor to audit them, who, for a 
handsome bribe, and being satisfied that the accounts were correct 
in fact though not in form, would have managed to cover up their 
Avrong-doing. Lastly, the numbers of the United States bonds 
would have been advertised, and after a decent delay a dirty parcel 
W’ould have been thrown into your area, or sent you by post, and 
you would have had no clew to the sender. Thus everything un- 
pleasant Avould have been hushed up. They would have rendered 
themselves agreeable to the Earl of Selby by raising the monej- for 
him on the Kensington mortgage; and in giatitude for that, as well 


A WEEK OF PASSIOIT. 


103 


as in consideration of the advisability of keeping a certain transac- 
tion secret, they would have been appointed your solicitors, and 
would have had the management of your estates. This, 1 say, 
would in all probability have been the situation if my father had 
not, through some providential premonition, made me his confi- 
dant.” 

The earl gazed at George Barton with astonishment as he thus 
sketched, in a few masterly outlines, the probable plan ol Messrs. 
Pollard & Pollard’s campaign, if they were the guilty authors of 
the murder. 

“ Why, Barton,” he said, grimly, ” one would think you had 
been at their elbows overhearing their plans, your sketch of tliem 
seems so horribly like a picture from life!” 

” Ah! my lord,” he replied, sadly, ” 1 have thought it all out in 
bitter hours of reflection, and the instincts or the intuition of venge- 
ance have come to my aid. My heart tells me 1 am right. And 
3 ’ou see the mode of death selected — suggested, no doubt, by recent 
outrages — was one that almost certainly assured the destruction, 
along with the individual, not only of every means of identification, 
but ot everything in the nature of evidence which he carried on his 
person.” 

” But ihis is inconceivable— it is horrible — it is unnatural— it is 
diabolic!” 

‘‘ Epithets, my lord, which, in a greater or less degree, are appli- 
cable to every crime by which a human life is sacrificed. Granted 
once the impulse to the crime, the criminal will verj^ rarely hesitate 
over the means.” 

“ Have you confided your suspicions to the police?” 

‘‘ jSIot a breath. I am convinced that that would be the way to 
defeat my own object. Consider that no sum would be too great to 
purchase immunity from punishment in this case. If my supposi- 
tions be correct, the guilty parties would not hesitate to try and bribe 
the subordinates in the Detective Department to throw dust in the 
e 3 'ea of their chiefs. Aon remember the revelations in a famous 
case? It would be hard to find any service so perfect that there 
were no weak spots here and there; and in this case the temptations 
held out would be simply immense.” 

” Well, Barton, 1 am in your hands. You can trust me as im- 
plicitly as 1 shall trust you. Y’ou have shown yourself to me to- 
day, under the most trjdng circumstances in which a man was ever 
placed, as possessed of qualities ot head and heart which 1 envy and 
admire— and to me personally you have exhibited a generosity and 
greatness of mind which place me under obligations to you such as 
I shall never be able to discharge. A'ou will allow me to say that, 
if you have lost a father, you will find your godfather ready to treat 
you as his own son. 1 can not fill Barton’s place, but, as far as 
you will let me, 1 will charge myself with your future, and what- 
ever remains of fortune or influence 1 possess shall be always at 
your service as if you were my own child.” 

As the earl uttered these w^ords with an emotion which vouched 
for their sincerity, a strange light gleamed in George Barton’s eyes. 
Had the earl knowm what^daring ambitions were blazing in his god- 
son’s mind and pulsating in his heait, whnt hopes his woids were 


104 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


kindling, while he gave way to the generous impulses ot his nature 
under the sense ot his obligation to one who had thus started up to 
lend him a strong hand in the midst ot all the perils which sur- 
rounded him, would he not have measured his words more care- 
tully, and guarded them from giring the slightest encouragement 
to those audacious hopes? in these moments ot grateful expansion 
men are apt to use woids which carry to the Hearer’s heart a deeper 
and a wider meaning than the speaker ever dreamed of, and justify 
obligations he would be the first to repudiate. 

Aliduight had long passed when this conference broke up. George 
Bari on proposed that for the present the earl should continue his 
relations with Pollard & Pollard, not giving them an}’- inkling that 
he entertained suspicions of their good faith. A secret agent was 
to be selected to go to JNew York and get the dates of the transfers 
— and, if possible, the original transfers — ot the Stockton railway 
shares. As vacation was close at hand, George suggested that Le 
Breton should be asked to take his holiday in that direction. 


CHAPTER X. 

THOUGHTS OF A SOCIETY BELLE. 

"Were 1 a woman I might pretend to know something of a w'om- 
an’s inner life and egoism, and movements of heart. With a face 
which, as my glass might only too clearly show me, old Father 
Time had begun to touch here and there with his withering pencil, 
my heart might be still hung round with memories of passions, like 
faded tapestries, w’hereon the outlines ot pale figures stood forth 
distinct, though the colors and the traits that were once so bright 
and so vivid were gone. And yet 1 might be unable to conceive 
what would be the kind ot thoughts and feelings which people the 
mind and heart ot a fair, clever belle of the season, rich, worshiped, 
flattered, pursued, the object of a thousand petty intrigues, of re- 
furbished passions and fresh, foolish loves— shut up within a circle 
ot trained and conventional beings, the product of the highest art 
of civilization, and ot hot-house growth in artificial temperatures. 

Curious in elegance of form or brilliancy of tint, reared in the 
tropical air of the glass house called “ Society,” exhibiting varieties 
of character or growth unknown to nature, and cunningly developed 
by human artifice — often do these products of civilized culture be- 
come strange, bizarre, even monstrous, as we may sometimes see 
from the current social annals, or when the rude anatomists of the 
Divorce Court pick the frail plants to pieces and expose their struct- 
ure to vulgar gaze. Thinking over the lot ot these aristocratic 
plants, 1 have often pondered that it must be a strange thing for 
the young heart bursting with life to feel that it is shut in from the 
W'ide air and the generous, universal glow of outer sunshine; that 
the space allotted to it, though costly and splendid, is measurable 
by inches, and not by the expansion ot an illimitable horizon. Some- 
times it may be the repressed yearning ot these young hearts after 
the healthy light and the salutary freedom of the open sky, which 
causes them in maturer years to push out with a rank luxuriance — 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


105 


like^ those crreat palms at Kew— until they can no longer be re- 
straineil within the crystal boxes in which their first growth was 
confined. 

Lady Blanche was rather an exceptional society belle, and per- 
haps had more of the nature of those sub-tropical plants which are 
reared in the open air, though guarded jealously from the vicissi- 
tudes of a rough and vulgar climate. She was no mere sensitive 
plant, but had a vigor and expansion all her own. Her mind was 
strong enough to reject, and even to despise, some of the prejudices 
which would seem to be natural and almost inevitable accidents of 
her birth. She Irad grown precociously, as all human vegetables 
must grow in that aristocratic soil, but her mother’s earliest effort 
had been to imbue h“r mind with the idea that woman’s sphere was 
a large one; that within its periphery there lay unbounded possi- 
bilities of human grandeur and distinction— intellectual eminence, 
lofty and noble ambitions, influences on the society in which she 
lived, which might possibly extend far on into the future of her 
own race and of the world at large. 

When the Countess ot Selby, who was herself a noble and re- 
markable woman, fired the spirit of her young daughter by speaking 
to her of those virtuous and lofty beings who. endowed with the 
graces of feminine beauty and with the delicate frame and gentle 
qualities of the sex, had yet left a luminous trail of blessed and 
potent influences on the world, she had been careful to point out to 
her that many, it not most, of those great female characters, though 
born to social distinction, had not been spoiled by the corrupting airs 
of society; nor had they been fettered by its conventional chains. 
They had “ emancipated ” themselves in a far diflerent sense from 
that implied when the term is now used by the ancient and haggard 
high- priestesses of a new cult, called “ women’s rights.” They had 
evinced no jealousy of manhood, which was a distinct and admira- 
ble quality. They had been great and powerful, because they pre- 
served their delicate feminine individuality, their woman’s charac- 
teristics and relations to family and society, and precisely those 
tender and dependent qualities which it is the custom of the modern 
philosophic harpies to denounce; and the countess showed her 
daughter that, from the great Mary — who alone had the intelligence 
to detect and encourage and treasure in her infant son those innate 
qualities of divine aspiration which raise a man up to be a star in 
the firmament of intelligence, shining far above the vulgar crowd 
who gaze, with gaping wonder, at His glory — down through all the 
ages of Christian development, every era had had its women ot great 
souls and brilliant intellects, creating, developing, cultivating, and 
multiplying around them some of the noblest of those influences 
\vhich were elevating and purifying the race. The countess, indeed, 
was considered by some of her friends to be rather “ emltee," and 
they of course attributed it, like the wmrd by which they expressed 
it, to French extract ion. But the six years that had ensued since 
her death, and the more rigid and commonplace system of educatioa 
which had been pursued by a series of instructresses, more or less 
penetrated with conventional ideas, had not effaced from Lady 
Blanche’s mind the influence of her mother’s w’ords. One of the 
countess’s sayings Lady Blanche had never forgotten. It was this: 


A WEEK OE PASSION. 


lOG 

“Keep your Leart tresh aud green by sprinkling it constantly 
with the pure, clear thoughts of the wise aud good; and, above all, 
remember that it is your own, which you alone have the nght to 
dispose ot, and for tlie right guardianship and culture of which you 
yourself are chiefly responsible. ’* 

Had not the countess been true to her own apothegm? Had she 
not declined to allow her parents to dispose of her heart and person 
to a w'ealthy and amorous old peer, because she had discovered in 
his son qualities more in harmony with her owm? True, the sacrifice 
she had made was no very great one, and it is not often that the 
alternatives presented to a woman are so evenly balanced: but she 
had, at all events, known what it was to suffer for asserting the 
right which she had reclaimed for every woman— the right to con- 
sider and to treat her heart as “ her own.” Hence it was that she 
created some perturbation in ” Societ}'^ ” when she threw her power- 
ful influence into the scale in favor ot the marriage of one of the 
wealthiest heiresses of the aristocracy with a poor but promising 
young diplomatist, an attache to one of the Foreign Embassies in 
London. In that case she was afterward triumphantly vindicated, 
for he is now one ot the small and brilliant circle of advisers to one 
of the most puissant monarchs in Europe; but she would have de- 
fended her action all the same had he remained in a lower rank of 
patriotic service. She found out that the girl loved him, that he 
was not personally unw'orthy of it, and that was enough to prompt 
her chivalrous interference. 

So that, 'perhaps — forgive me, most noble duchesses, marchionesses, 
countesses, aud ladies of ever}’- degree, what 1 am going to say! — 
Lady Blanche, being a good deal more human than those other fresh 
beauties who come up from annual exhibition — like Leighton’s or 
Millais’s new pictures — one may be able to read and understand a 
little more of her heart than he might be to explain the workings of 
the curious, complicated watch-work which your system of educa- 
tion too frequently substitutes for natural flesh and blood. 

This young lady, returning from the Queen’s ball, always a dreary 
affair, and therefore terminating prematurely at the comparatively 
early hour of two in the morning, has thrown oft all her robes of 
consequence, has endued herself, as becomes her purity, in the finest 
of white linen, and having thrown over this cool garment a soft, 
white robe of cashmere, has dismissed her maid. Instead, then, of 
going to bed and seeking that rest which her eyes testify that she is 
sadly in want of, she has throw^n herself back on a long, low, 
luxurious chair, and, curling her* feet up under her robe, reposed 
her finely-shaped head on her two hands, w’hich are clasped behind 
it. And any one may peep in here with some confidence, for he is 
not required to read a society riddle, but a fresh, young, human 
heart. 

Her face looks exquisite in repose; and just now all her features 
are in repose, but her eyes appear troubled. That is to say, there is 
a movement, in their lustrous depths— a quick and furtive move- 
ment, like that of gold-fishes deep down in a clear pool, a flash now 
and then, and deep, crystalline darkness again. 

The day gone by had certainly not been destitute ot emotions. 
There was that strange visit in the morning to Lady Tilbury, the 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


107 


recoiled ion ot which called up a little rose-color in Lady Blanche’s 
cheek. It also brought before her the beautiful, matronly face of 
her mother in its graver and tenderer moments. It recalled her 
mother’s words, which lay there locked up in the silver-clasped 
diary on her table as written down by herself years ago in her own 
strong, clear handwriting, every letter and stroke and dot of which 
now seemed as distinct to her eyes as if the page were lying open 
before tier. 

Had she, in that impulsive and generous moment toward her 
cousin Edward of Tilbury, quite correctly caught the spirit of those 
remarkable words? Her “ heart was her own,” but her mother had 
never meant to suggest that she should go and throw it away in a fit 
ot generosity, however noble. It was the treasure-box of all the 
best and brightest jewels ot her nature — when she gare that away 
she gave away herself— everything she possessed which was worth 
having for any one worthy to possess it. 

In some fine natures there is a peculiar power of analysis which 
often exerts itself indefinitely and unconsciously, while the mind 
seems hovering betwixt dream and fancy. For the present. Lady 
Blanche, who could sit down on occasion and reason out things for 
herself in very logical and consistent fashion, was not in a reason- 
ing mood. She was rather indulging in reverie. "W ithout deliber- 
ately setting herself to ask why she had taken that curious step in 
the morning of the day gone by — as a termination to a long and 
wearisome sort ot conflict which had been going on tor some time 
■within her, the crisis of which had been precipitated partly by 
Lord Tilbury’s condition, and'partly by a vivid realization of the 
agony of his mother during those anxious, weary hours of watching 
and suspense — she was vaguely passing in review the causes which 
had led her to take such a sudden resolution. 

Was she “in love” with her cousin? Oh no! Her heart told 
her clearly that he had not touched the spring which makes the 
heart resound to the music of passion. 

The experience of “coming out,” which is looked upon as so 
serious an occasion in the life of a young maiden of the higher classes 
of society, though it has none ot the solemnity which attaches to a 
“ first communion,” or a betrothal, or a marriage, nevertheless, for 
a gill who is not absolutely vapid or vicious, who is not imbued 
with the romantic conceits and pampered vanities of spoiled girl- 
hood, has some grave sides to it, and gives occasion to many serious 
and troublous thoughts. The world suddenly ceases to be a nursery 
filled with lively companions, and bright with beautiful toys; it 
has turned into a theater of comedies and tragedies, wherein the 
acting is all too real. She has entered into a new existence, where 
women marry and are given in marriage; where ideas that only 
floated vaguely in the imagination loom nearer and more distinct, 
as possible realities; where xhajeune premiere called on to play a 
role, to appear and speak and act before a critical audience, to give 
the reply, lo advance, to retire, to feign or feel all the emotions, to 
beat the same lime artist and realisl. She who has been simple 
and natural must learn social tact and diplomacy must acquire the 
art of reading the characters and designs of others, w^hile she hides 
or deploys her own forces. If she be a beauty, she is a personage, 


108 


A. WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


the object of adulation, flattery, intrigue, criticism, gossip — of flirta- 
tion, or of earnest and perhaps passionate rivalries, 

Well, all this and more Lady Blanche had experienced. She 
was passing it all in review dreamily. Her mind, all hough it was 
penetrated with the fine fibers of poetry and sentiment, was strong 
and sensible. Her head had not been turned by her brilliant suc- 
cess as a debutante in the flimsy, Watteau like theater of society. 
She had looked around her with composure, borne herself with 
dignity, managed to be gay without being frivolous, to be always 
brighi and fascinating without being fast. But with all her suc- 
cess, and for the very reasons of her success, she had been pro- 
foundl}" disappointed. A chill, brusque shock had been given to 
the romantic side of her nature. Where she had hoped to meet at 
least a few social paladins of the other sex, she had found many 
stupid, feeble, and frivolous fops, and many brilliant but shallow^ 
young prigs. A few who seemed to have some better qualities of 
head were destitute of the finer qualities of the heart. In society 
she thought they were inhuman. They were graceless sticks — 
some of them certainly with gold tops— rather than living, spiritual 
men. She was too inexperienced as yet to be able to estimate the 
value of characters which were undeveloped; and the maturer char- 
acters — the minds with which she longed, in her ambition, to come 
in contact — were those of elderly men, men who had passed out of 
that era of priggery which Divine Providence and the leading in- 
structors of English youtii have decreed that it shall be the fate of 
every educated Englishman to pass through, and out of which, alas! 
too many of them never emerge. But, unhappily for Lady Blanche, 
most of these matured spirits were already in that state so aptly and 
accurately expressed by the word wedlock; and besides, such men as 
these rarely get the chance, and still more rarely take it, of paying 
court to a fashionable belle. 

The lookout was indeed a dismal one. 

Lady Blanche was very fond of her younger brother, “ Charlie,” 
who Jvas seriously preparing himself for a political career, while his 
elder brother. Lord Layton, was wasting the paternal fortune, and 
bis own few remaining physical and menial powers, in gambling 
and debauch. Lord Charles, without being a genius, had" qualities 
which she could admire, and which distinguished him from the 
hundreds of young men who were floating about on the gay currents 
of society. Besides, he opened his mind as well as his heart to his 
sister, for whom he had a very deep regard. In her he had long 
recognized a superior nature, a spirit and capacity beyond his own. 
She could not help saying to herself very often that in that brilliant 
circle in which she moved she had not yet seen any one who came 
up to her brother Charlie, This was a great disadvantage to the 
young aspirants who had to bear comparison with so high a 
standard, and one, moreover, which was constantly at hand to sug- 
gest the comparison. 

Then there was her cousin, the Earl of Tilbury, her intimate from 
babyhood. He used laughingly to pretend thac he had carried her 
in his arms when she was in long frocks. She had always liked 
him. His was a curious, complex nature, a combination of shrewd 
sense, of practical aptitude, of buoyant physical spirits, of elevated 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


109 


and remarkable culture for his age, and of comical humor. He had 
only attained his majority a tew months ago, yet he had made a 
clever little maiden speech in the House of Peers, and had started a 
stable on the turt. He was a dandy, and he had a sharp, incisive 
W'it. He frequented at the same time the Carlton, the Marlborough, 
White’s, Ilurlinaham, and Tattersall’s; his name turned up in tirs 
at Kice and Cannes, and in the races at Auteuil or at Trouville; 
yet he attended the Quarter Sessions of his county, and proved that 
he could take a sensible and serious part in county a flairs along- 
side of gray -headed men. He professed Conservative principles, to 
which his cynicism gave an odd flavor of Liberalism. Among all 
the gay crowd which had passed under the very critical eyes of Lady 
Blanche, he stood out as one of the most manly and estimable; and, 
besides, he was just such a wooer as a “ sensible ” girl in her posi- 
tion would allow herself to contemplate with favor. Moreover, he 
had shown in his way a marked preference for her. All this not- 
withstanding, he M'as not her Ideal ! 

Nothing can prevent that troublesome, vague, volatile Ideal from 
floating in between reason and the Keal, disturbing the vision, and 
playing moonshine with the sensible and proper course of men and 
women’s inclinations. 

So that Lady Blanche, having arrived very near the end of the 
season, felt a vast and deep disappointment as she looked about 
her, and began to contemplate seriously the possibilities of her future 
fate. It was useless for her to try to put the question aside alto- 
gether. That is one of the compensating luxuries reserved for the 
girls of the middle classes, and too many people, including her 
father, were interested in the result to allow her to do that. Other- 
wise she would gladly have dismissed the subject, or left it to the 
chapter of accidents. 

But had no human figure ever presented itself to her eyes and 
mind, which, whatever its accidents, intrinsically seemed to be at 
least a worthy embodiment of her Ideal? Had any one outside that 
charmed innermost circle of the aristocracy, to which her views were 
supposed to be confined, touched her heart sufficiently to give it a 
troubled movement whenever his image floated before her memory? 

Her answer, had the question been put squarely to her, would 
have been “ No ” — and it would have been a true one. Up to this 
June morning, at all events, w'hich is just about to dawn. Lady 
Blanche’s heart was free. And yet she liad often thought that there 
was one man, with whose face, figure, air, and ahilitiesshe was very 
familiar, who was very near her type of a manly and perfect char- 
acter. He had sense, intelligence, wit, culture; he had a chivalrous 
bearing toward women, and a dignified carriage and great social 
adroitness among men. His dark, deep eyes, his rich mellow voice, 
the sympathy which seemed to radiate from him with magnetic 
influence, his features, not precisely handsome, but full of intelli- 
gence and candor — all made him peculiarly attractive to women. 
Lord Charles and Lord Tilbury not only liked him, but had made 
him quite a friend. He had been a familiar figure to her almost 
from childhood. But then he was George Barton, the agent’s son, 
a gentleman, but not in the least degree likely to look so high, any 
more than she was likely to look so low. She could esteem him. 


110 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


and be all the more easy and familiar with him that there must al- 
ways be on both sides a conscipusness of their relative positions. 
Alas! we have seen that, as far as he was concerned, that had not 
prevented him from lookins and looking again, until his heart had 
taken the daring leap. Is it possible tliat perhaps, just now and 
then, when the potent spell of George Barton’s society was still 
around her, such a thought as this may have flashed through her 
mind, but so lightly and rapidly as not to reveal anything serious? 
“ What a pity that he is not the Marquis of Broadacres instead of 
the idiot ^\ho is'” Or when she was bored and disgusted by the 
stupid attentions of Lord Prattlecombe, the millionaire baron, son 
of an iron-master, had she ever thought, ” If he were only such a 
man as George Barton ”? Such a thought, it it ever had arisen, had 
soon been dismissed and left no sentimental traces on her memory. 

Whatever follows, therefore, we must do this justice to Lady 
Blanche, that in that singular impulse to give her Cousin Edward a 
chance, which was as good as an offer, she had not been unfaithful 
to any secret love. 

As she lay there, reflecting how disappointed she had been with 
everybody and everything, she could not help thinking what a 
goose she had made of herself in the morning, or avoid feeling glad 
that nothing serious had come of it. She knew now that she had 
had the narrowest escape in her life from doing an irredeemably 
wrong thing. She almost shuddered wlien she began to realize how 
she would have felt at that moment had she really been committed 
to the Earl of Tilbury. 

Leaving that subject, her thoughts turned to her father and his 
secret yet evident anxiety, and then, by a natural course, to George 
Barton and his troubles. The shortest cut to a woman’s heart is 
through her pity, and when she began to recall his face, his words, 
his dejected appearance, his evident anguish, the figure of George 
Barton began to assume in her eyes a strangely moving and sympa- 
thetic aspect. Her impulse to see him and speak to him the night 
before had been dictated by pure good-nature, tor her feelings 
toward him were very friendly. She would have done as much for 
her music- master, .Mr. Pistachio, who certainly had not inspired the 
grand passion in any woman for twenty years. But it was not pos- 
sible for her to think of George Barton after that evening as she had 
thought of him before. In the excitement of the moment he had 
betrayed too much to the quick-witted girl. When she recalled his 
face and words and acts, her first impulse was to regret it all — to 
wish it had not happened— to say that it was most unfortunate, and 
would put a considerable restraint upon their intercourse — in fact, 
exactly what a judicious matron would say that such a girl ought 
to have thought under such circumstances. 

But all this was suddenly swept away by a great rush of sym- 
pathy through her heart. As he kissed her hand she had experienced 
a thrill of feeling unlike anything she had ever felt before. Do 
what she would, she could not forget the sensation. The troubled, 
appealing look of his eyes came up vividly before her. She re- 
flected on the sharpness of his trial, the terrible nature of his suffer- 
ings, and appreciated far beyond its standard the nobility with 
which he bore his sorrow. How glad she would have been to speak 


A WEEK OE PASSIOK. 


ni 


some words of comfort to him, to help him to endure his grief! 
Had he only been a Tilbury or a Beauchamp! Had it only been 
possible to regard him as a serious aspirant! 

But this reverie was becoming dangerous, and with George Bar- 
ton’s striking, appealing, melancholy face still before her eyes. Lady 
Blanche started— yawned, stretched her arms, and cried, 

“ IIo\v silly 1 am! It is nearly daylight, and 1 have not had a 
wink of sleep!” 

Words so absolutely practical and unsentimental that we may 
fairly abandon the young beauty for the present to the chaste arms 
of Morpheus, for she ceases to be interesting. 


CHAPTEH XI. 

A DETECTIVE DETECTED. 

We have said that, when Mr. Grayson reported to Messrs. Pollard 
& Pollard that the Earl of Selby had gone straight from their office 
to young Barton’s chambers, the two partners looked at each other 
with consternation. 

But an incident had occurred which Mr. Grayson did not think fit 
to report, and which, had he done so, would not have served to 
allay their anxiety. 

Another person had followed the earl from the very door of the 
solicitors’ office, and this person ran against Mr. Grayson on the 
stairs of No. 18 King’s Bencli Walk. 

” Ha!” he said, ” Pollard & Pollard?” 

*' Yes,” replied Mr. Grayson, mechanically, thrown off his guard 
by the familiar manner of the address, which is in accordance with 
a formula in use among lawyers’ clerks at court or judges’ cham- 
bers when addressing or asking for the representative of a him 
whose personal identity is unknown to them. 

” 1 thought so. Following up the Earl of Selby, eh?” 

” I don’t see what business that is of yours,” retorted Mr. Gray- 
son, astonished at the stranger’s impudence. ” Who are you?” 

“Oh, I’m Smith&Smith, or Jones & Jones, whicheveryou please,” 
said the stranger, with what Mr. Grayson considered to be misplaced 
levity. “ But look here,” the stranger added, in a contidential tone, 
while venturing to place his arm in a familiar way under that of the 
old clerk, “ it happens to be just my business, my dear friend, and 
if you will only permit me the opportunity, I’ll tell you why. But 
it will take some time. Let’s go into the Mitre and have a snack, 
or a glass of something, and I’ll be happy to explain.” 

The man was not a suspicious-looking person. He was well 
dressed, and would have passed as a respectable solicitor’s clerk; a 
gold chain flourished rather pretentiously on his buff waistcoat. 
There was a seductive ease and familiarity about his manner, 
though his face was by no means handsome, and altogether Mr. 
Grayson’s curiosity was awakened. So he went along with his man, 
who chatted brightly. 

The two gentlemen were soon eniraged in taking a very consider- 
able “ snack ” together, in the shape of a few pounds of roast beet. 


112 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


washed down by a bottle of sherry. 1 have been told by a detective 
that there is no liquid which has such virtues as an opener of the 
heart as the fiery stufi sold for sherry at six shillings a bottle in a 
London restaurant. Champagne makes a man hamrder, as the 
French say, but it reaches only the lighter faculties, excites the wit, 
the spirit of mischief, and other bad spirits — it does not touch the 
secret springs of being. Besides, it takes a good deal of it to oper- 
ate on a seasoned cask, and it is costly. Beer “ goes to the feet,” 
and gives them, and the brain also, a leaden feeling of comfort and 
security, and, it anything, rather tends to shut a man up than to 
make him communicative. Port wine is distinctly an insolvent. 
It muddles, but it gives no expansion. WhisKy, taken neat, in 
sufficient quantities, has an awakening effect, especially on a Scotch- 
man, up to a certain point, but it excites the wrong faculties— it 
arouses the quarrelsome tendencies in some men and the cautious in 
others: hot, with sugar, the patient who imbibes it sometimes be- 
comes confidential at the fifteenth or sixteenth glass, but, as law'yers 
say, time then becomes of the essence of the contract. The sooth- 
ing effects of gin are too well known to need description, but before 
a man is thrown oft bis guard under its influences, his communica- 
tions, however confidential, become muddy and embarrassing. 
For “ touching up ” a man rapidly and giving him a general sense 
of w^el 1-being and of affection for his next neighbor, for opening the 
secret chambers of his heart, and bringing their contents under the 
inspection of the curious inquirer, London sherry, made in Ham- 
burg with potato brandy, is the article which in the vast majority 
of cases has the most rapid and deadly effect. According to my in- 
formant, “ it touches up every corner;” it pervades, invades, and 
subdues the entire being. 

The gentleman wdio had shown himself so generous to Mr. Gray- 
son selected sherry, and out of consideration for his guest, permitted 
the latter to consume the greater part, indeed nearly the whole, of 
the bottle. It was a long"^time since old Grayson had had such a 
treat, and though naturally of a cautious and silent temperament, 
he, when his heait was warmed up, and his temples began to beat, 
grew confidential with his new friend. This gentleman had put 
him at his ease by telling him that he was engaged on ihe same 
secret service as himself — ” in strict confidence, he was a detective 
from Scotland Yard,” employed at the instance of Messrs. Pollard 
& Pollard, to try and discover the w'hereabouts or the fate of Mr. 
Barton. It seems the most natural thing in the world to unbosom 
one’s self to a detective when one knows he is after somebody 
else. 

” Of course,” he said, with a meaning glance at Mr. Grayson, 
“we’ve got to watch what tlie earl does, you see, because he was 
Mr. Barton’s principal.” 

“ Oh. of course,” said Mr. Grayson, winking as if he perfectly 
comprehended the cryptical game of the detective force, though he 
was inwardly astonished to hear it. 

“1 see you were doing the same,” said the detective. “Ah? 
you’re clever people! Very able firm, Pollard & Pollard; very 
sharp, eh?” 

“ As razors,” said Mr. Grayson. 


A WEEK OF PASSIOFT. 113 

“ And 1 see by 3 ^our looks and appearance you’re one of their 
confidential clerks — an old ’un. ” 

“ 1 have been thirty years at Pollard & Pollard’s; and to tell you 
the truth, you know, this is confidential business I’m on now,’' said 
Mr. Grayson, with pride. “ To-day Mr. Joseph Pollard called mo 
into the private room, and he said, ‘Look here, Grayson, this i& 
strictly private and confidential business, you know — not a word to 
the other clerks — the Earl of Selby is one of our best clients — we 
want to know where he is going to— you follow him up, regardless 
of expense — and find out all about it. There’s a sovereign for you 
for expenses.’ ” 

“ By Jove! do things in royal st 5 de, eh?” 

” 1 should think they do — one of the first firms in London,” said 
Mr. Grayson, whose memory, it will be noted, had, among other 
faculties, been rather affected by the sherry. 

” Yes, quite so; very clever of them to think of it. Ha, ha! They 
didn’t know that 1 was waiting to do the same thing. Ah! they’re 
long-headed men, they are. 1 suppose, now, they do an immense 
business tor the Earl of Selby?” 

‘‘Well, you know,” replied Grayson, ‘‘they’re solicitors to the 
great Tilbury estate, for which Lord Selby is executor, and then 
they’re solicitors to Lord Tilbury’s mother; and 1 should say be- 
tween ’em it’s worth over a thousand or two a year. But, Lord 
bless your soul, that’s nothing to our people.” 

‘‘ Flea-bite, eh? And then, 1 suppose, they are the Earl of Sel- 
by’s lawyers?” 

‘‘Not exactly. You see, Mr. Barton— the man that cut it— was 
the Earl of Selby’s agent. But there’s lately been a good deal of 
business, in our office for the earl— very confidential business, you 
know — all kept in the private room, and done by the head clerk or 
one of the partners— borrowing, 1 fancy ” — here Mr. Grayson winked 
— ‘‘sometimes, you know, these rich noblemen spend too much 
money, and need a little accommodation.” 

“Exactly",” nodded and said the obliging friend, as if he had 
been in the business, and understood it thoroughly. ‘‘ And then 
they don’t like to tell their own private agents, and so they go to a 
first-class firm they can trust— like Pollard & Pollard — and get 
them to make a confidential advance on deposit of title-deeds — that’s 
it — hey?” 

‘‘That’s the way!” said Mr. Grayson, tossing off another glass 
of sherry. ‘‘ Fine wine that— dry — nutty — clean to the palate.” 

‘‘ Take another glass. So Lord Selby has been borrowing pri- 
vately?” 

Mr. Grayson suddenly paused, with the glass half-way to his 
mouth, and said, 

‘‘ I say Mr.— what did you say your name was?” 

” Dillon.” 

‘‘ Mr. Dillon, now you’re asking too much. What’s that got to 
do with Mr. Bnrton? Mr. Barton never knew anything about it till 
a short time ago, a fortnight or so, and 1 expect that it was his find- 
ing it out that all the row’s about.” 

” Oh! there’s been a row then!” mentally ejaculated ‘‘ Mr. Dil- 
Jon.” Orally, he said. 


114 


A WEEK OE PASSIOK. 


“1 don't want you 1o tell me anything whatever that’s confi- 
dential, Mr. Giayson, 1 see that you wouldn't do so any way, it 1 
were to ask you. Let me explain to you what my idea was. You 
see, 1 thought that you and I miglit be mutually useful to one an- 
other in this business— as we are both interested on the same side, 
you know.” 

Mr. Grayson nodded. 

” Now, 1 am going to speak to you in the strictest confidence, 
Mr. Grayson, and it you don’t keep it to yourselt, \^ell, then, 1 
shall get the sack, and you will lose the chance of making a good 
thing out of it. You know there'll be a good deal of money going 
over this job, and I’m very anxious to make a job ot it. T&re’s 
six hundred pounds ofiered by your firm alone, and there’s that 
young Mr. Barton has been talking of offering five liundred more. 
Then 1 think the Government may ofier something ’’—this was a 
gratuitous and offensive slander ot the soi-distant Mr. Dillon’s upon 
a Liberal Government, invented on the spur ot the moment. ‘‘ You 
see, our business, Mr. Gra 3 'Son, is a high art — a very difficult one. 
It isn’t always by the information we get direct from the parties 
that we find out the right clew to these secret crimes and disappear- 
ances; it’s by getting to know wdiat’s underneath, you know — little 
things which people don’t think to be of an}" consequence, and for- 
get to tell us, or perhaps don’t like to tell us, because they are com- 
promising to their clients; quite harmless things, you know, wdiich 
just give us a hint, and w’hich we always treat" in the strictest confi- 
dence. Little things may happen--let us say, for instance, in your 
office — which would escape the observation ot big men like your 
principals, and which they would never mention to us, and yet 
which might, you know— might help to put us on the right 
scent, and so help us to ferret out the whole mystery. Well, 
a man like you, wiio is always on the spot — always keeps his 
eyes and ears open, 1 can see that— could give me a hint 
now and then ot what was going on — without betraying any confi- 
dence, mind; w’e don’t encourage that in our department— that is 
not good policy, and it ain’t lionorable- but he might help us to 
make more out of the information w’e get from the firm— don’t you 
see- -and he would be helping them at the same time he w'as helping 
us.” 

“ 1 w"on’t betray no secrets of the firm,” said Mr. Grayson, shut- 
ting up his lios in the Chubbs lock fashion, aa he had done before 
his principals. 

” Precisely; that is no more thanlwmuld have expected of a man 
of your position and standing os a confidential clerk, Mr. Grayson, 
and you would be very careful not to overstep the boumis of honor 
and duty. But you could throw a good deal of light upon the in- 
formation 1 have from time to time— and so serve us and your peo- 
ple, and yourself, Mr. Grayson, at the same time— for of course it 
w"ould be understood that there was quid pro quo, as you lawyers 
say; we could not put you to trouble without sharing some of the 
profit with you. AVell, all 1 ask ot you is this: 1 don’t want 
to be worrying your principals every half -hour for little items 
of information; 1 only want to be able, when 1 don’t quite 
unders'tand the bearing ot anything that turns up, to come to 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


115 


you in a friendly Tvay, as it were, and ask your opinion about 
it, and get your advice as to what i should do; and ot course 
it would be understood that if 1 were to ask anything you 
felt bound in honor not to answer, why, then you would just say 
so, frankly, you know— no offense on either side — and we should 
then apply officially to your principals to give us the information. 
It’s only to facilitate matters, you see.” 

Mr. Grayson nodded. The delicate consideration shown by the 
detective struck him with admiration. 

“ Well, then, it’s agreed on that footing that if you will help me 
in this confidential way — and strictly between ourselves, mind— you 
will receive a remuneration, certain; and if we succeed in pulling 
the business through, then you shall have a share ot the reward — 
all between ourselves, you know — and it will add something hand- 
some to your year’s income.” ' 

” That’s all fair and square enough,” said Mr. Grayson. ” So 
long as you don’t ask me to betray any confidence, I’m your man, 
Mr. —Mr. — INIr. — ” 

” Dillon.” 

‘‘Dillon?” His jaw suddenly dropped. ” Why, you ain’t— ” 

" JMo, no!” said the other, laughing; ” I ain’t the Irish member. 
God forbid!” 

‘‘Well, Mr. Dillon— By the way, can’t you give me your 
card?” 

‘‘ No; but look here; 1 will write down my name and address — 
you had better communicate with me at my private address— No. 
50 Randall Street, Chelsea.” Mr. Dillon wrote the address on a 
leaf of a memorandum- book, which he took out of his pocket, and 
handed it to Mr. Grayson, adding, ‘‘And look here, 1 know you 
lawyers like a retainer— hey? Let me hand you this as a first in- 
stallment. It’s a ten-pun’ note.” 

‘‘Oh! Mr.— Mr. — ” said Mr. Grayson, with a feeble gesture of 
denegation. 

‘‘No, no, 1 insist. Quid pro quo, my dear sir. Nothing for 
nothing, that’s my motto. And now 1 must be going, to see what 
our noble friend is doing. He must have got through his say with 
young Barton by this time. And of course you are going to make 
your confidential report to Messrs. Pollard & Pollard. Well, y( u 
will permit me, if you please, to discharge the little bill! Happy to 
have made your acquaintance, Mr. Grayson. Hope it will conduce 
to our mutual profit, advantage, and benefit. Good-day, Mr. Gray- 
son. Your most obedient.” 

From this it will be seen that Mr. Sontag was a man of genius. 
He was pursuing his inquiries in what we have termed an under- 
ground manner; and not content with looking for traces of the miss- 
mg Mr, Barton wherever he could find them, or of the crime 
wherever they directly presented themselves, he was also determined 
to watch the pursuers, the persons who had given him his instruc- 
tions, or professed to be interested in the pursuit, and to acquire 
from or through them, nolens miens, a knowledge of the real rela- 
tions which existed between them and the persons for the problem 
of whose fate they had asked him to find the solution. Hence he 
had given instructions that every movement of Messrs. Pollard & 


116 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


Pollard, and of their distinguished client, the Earl of Selby should 
be carefully watched and reported to him. 

When Mr. Grayson entered the office of his employers, another 
gentleman who had been standinat and walking about in the neigh- 
borhood in an unoccupied way, examining the houses and the land- 
scape afforded by the Fields, took note of it and ol the hour, and 
continued to wander about piomiscuously, like an uneasy spirit. 
He was joined later on in the afternoon by another gentleman with- 
out spectacles, but with very bushy eyebrows, which were quite as 
readil}'^ taken oft as spectacles, and were not so liable to fracture. 
These two gentlemen spied the goings-out and comings-in of the 
two partners, and were told off to ascertain the names and addresses 
of all persons with whom they held communication outside their 
offices. From an early hour on Saturday morning, before they had 
left their respective homes in Regent’s Park and South Kensing- 
ton, Messrs. Pollard & Pullard had been subjected to this most 
bureaucratic and un-15ritish espionage. Mr. Sontag began to take 
action before the famous conference at the Home Office. 

The wanderer with the spectacles followed Mr. Pollard, senior, 
to his domicile in York Terrace, Regent’s Park, and had nothing 
further to report. The gentleman with the bushy eyebrows was 
destined to make a bad night of it. Mr. Charles Pollard did not 
leave his office until nearly seven o’clock, and instead of turning 
westward he walked, twirling his thin umbrella, to the London, at 
the foot of Chancery Lane, where he dined at his ease. He did not 
notice the gentleman who sal at the next table, who seemed more 
engrossed with the perusal of the “ St. James’s Gazette ” than with 
the excellent joint of mutton which was served at that capital estab- 
lishment, and who somehow appeared to have as much leisure as 
the wealthy solicitor, for he managed to take an hour and a halt to 
his dinner, and only rose to leave when Mr. Cliarles Pollard had 
paid his bill and taken his hat. In Fleet Street Mr. Pollard took 
a hansom. He of the bushy eyebrows also took a hansom, and re- 
quested the drivel to keep the other in view. 

The leader, following the directions he had received, drove dowm 
through Fenchurch Street and Aidgate to Whitechapel, but instead 
of continuing along the Whitechapel Road he took the Commercial 
Road, and drew up at the corner of Cannon Street Road. There 
he was discharged- The other hansom was stopped and discharged 
before arriving at the corner. When Mr. Pollard emerged fiom tlie 
hansom he seemed a different person from the foppishly-dressed 
citizen who had entered it. A long, rough, light tweed over-all, 
which he had carried on his arm in leaving the office now en- 
shrouded him from neck to heels. A pair of formidable green 
spectacles, necessary, no doubt, to protect the e 5 '^es from the brilliant 
twilight of the East End, completely hid his eyes. Glancing round 
after his cab had departed, he plunged into a maze of lanes lying to 
the east of Cannon Street Road, between the Commercial Road and 
a street with the suggestive nautical name of Cable Street, and 
w’alking smartly for some minutes, carefully dodged by the shadow 
with the bushy brows, he at length reached an old house situated in 
a narrow' and dirty cul-ds-sac. Looked at from without the house 
seemed to be unoccupied, but the solicitor let himself in with a 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


117 

latch-key. The shadow was left kicking his heels outside tor 
twenty minutes, during which time the twilight had time to deepen 
into darkness. There was no public-house in the court in which a 
mau might while away the time, or imfirove an hour which was 
by no means shining. So the man with the bushy eyebrows lit a 
pipe and stood with his back to a dirty wall at the extreme end of 
the inclosure, whence he was enabled to command the doors of all 
the houses opening on it. He was in the shadow, and could not be 
perceived, though looking up toward the mouth ot the court he 
could see perfectly everything moving within it. The spot, iiow- 
ever, had been well chosen, if secrecy were Mr. Pollard’s object. 
During the period of our detective's watch only one human being 
enteied the court, a woman, and a few cats flitted to and fro paying 
their evening calls. Presently there was the click of a latch, and a 
person emerged from the door which ]\Ir. Charles Pollard had en- 
tered. Glancing sharply at this individual the detective saw that it 
was not his man. He was dressed in a short pea-jacket, with a very 
wide pair of trousers, heavy boots that sounded through the court 
like a pair of sabots; a big sou’-wester covered a tangled head of 
hair, and a painful limp seemed to indicate that this mariner, ancient 
or modern, had fallen from the tops and peimanently injured one 
of his legs. At first the detective did not seem inclined to move; 
but when he siiw this individual, flourishing a big stick, turn to- 
ward the entrance of the court and stump away with a good deal of 
vigor, he reconsidered, slipped quietly nlong the wall, and after he 
had got out to the street beyond managed to pass the tar and get a 
glimpse at his face in the full blaze ot a public-house. 

“ Gad!” he said to himself; ” 1 swear 1 should never have known 
him!” 

And slipping back he left the court and all its secrets behind, and 
proceeded to follow closely the limping ultra-marine. 

This individual stumped along quickly, and after a few turns 
crossed Cable Street, and went down ISew Gravel Lane, in the now 
historic district of Wapping. He turned to the right of this lane 
into a fresh maze ot streets and courts, and eventually reached the 
water-side, where stood a low public-house, dirty, dingy, ancient, 
rotting, dropping forward as if it were going every minute to fall 
into the river, and from which proceeded such boisterous sounds as 
are wont to come from those who go down to the sea in ships when 
they are primed with bad spirits and befogged with the blackest 
and strongest of tobacco. Then he went in. 

The detective was now at his wits’ end what to do. He had not 
been prepared for Mr. Charles Pollard’s surprising capacity of 
metamorphosis. To enter this marine hostelry at that hour dressed 
in the garments even of a solicitor’s clerk was to excite suspicious 
attention, it not to court certain death by incontinent administra- 
tion of Thames water, whereof so little was consumed on the prem- 
ises. He turned back quickly into the main street, where he had 
observed a policeman, found him, explained the situation, and told 
him he must have a nautical disguise immediately. The policeman 
introduced him by the private door into a public-house, wheie he 
seemed to be on intimate terms. In a few minutes the dress of a 
drunken sailor was on our detective’s back; he rubbed his hand 


118 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


across the ceiling above a petroleum lamp, llieu over his face and 
hands, and ihiis, having given himself the appearance of a seaman 
fresh from a collier or an unwashed stoker, he rapidly returned to 
the Dutch Lugger, a venerable inn \^hich, in its day, had seen al- 
most as much iniquity as the interior of a nobleman’s castle in the 
Middle Ages. The policeman of the beat did not care to venture 
down there alone, but he agreed to hang about the top of the street, 
and upon hearing a certain whistle, to come to the assistance of his 
colleague in the superior service. Unhappily the detective was 
unarmed, and the policeman not having a revolver, even in that 
dangerous spot, could not lend him one. 

Our detective knew his business. When he entered the Dutch 
Lugger he did not walk in, he staggered against the swinging doors, 
and almost fell through them into the room; but he was brought up 
sharp by the bar, wliich stood only three feet from the door. The 
place was so full of steam and smoke that no one would have 
noticed the maneuver had they been inclined to remark so ordinary 
an event in that place. Only a lynx-eyed drab, with draggled hair 
and garments, owing to the rough caresses to which her vocation 
of bar-maid subjected her from the customers, observed this incon- 
tinent ingress, and said, sharply, 

“ Now, then, stoopid, where are you going to?” 

“ G—g—g— hie— give us a hot gin,” he replied. “Oh, you 
beauty!” 

He tumbled through a half-door about two feet wide into a large, 
low apartment, divided by low partitions into boxes, in which a 
considerable number of seafaring men of all nations and a few 
miserable women were drinking and smoking. No one seemed to 
notice him. Throwing round a sharp, quick glance from beneath 
the shaggy eyebrows, he took in the whole scene, and saw his man 
sitting in a box at the far end of the room, with a broad-shouldered 
person whose back was turned toward the door. Then, gyrating 
cleverly do\sn the room, he, with a big oath, came to an anchor in 
the next box, wdiich happened to be unoccupied. There, spreading 
out his arms on the narrow shelf which served for a table, he let 
his head fall upon them with a thud. The broad-shouldered man 
who had doubtless selected his box for the very reason that it was 
secluded, rose and looked sharply over the partition at the half- 
recumbent figure. 

“ it’s all right,” he said to the person opposite to him; “ he’s a 
collier’s seaman, black as coal and drunk as — ” 

The quick ear of the detective was struck by the man’s tone of 
voice, accent, and manner of speech, which were those of a person 
of culture and breeding wdio had been depraved by misfortunes or 
by vulgar associations. If he w^ere a criminal heVas not one of 
the ordinary type. He spoke as only those speak who have been 
brought up and have mixed in good society. He expressed himself 
with a good deal of nervous ease and force, and the viilaarities 
which now and then slipped into his conversation contrasted oddly 
with the general correctness of his language, and the clever, caustic 
cynicism which it is the custom of well-bred gentlemen to substitute 
tor the coarse brutalities of the vulgar and ignorant. 

The observations of the detective were, however, rudely disturbed 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


119 


b}" the young lady of tlie bar, who, approaching with the hot stuft 
he had ordered, and finding her customer in a posture indicating 
that previous potations had already proved too much for his stabil- 
ity, hit him a sharp rap on the head with the bottom of the thick 
tumbler containing the beverage, spilling over him a quantity of 
boiling liquid, which certainly had the eflect of stirring him up, 
while she cried out in a strident voice that rang through the room. 

“ Now, then, you boozy blank you, don't you know we ain’t 
allowed to serve drunken people on these premises?” 

The man, though he had been sharply scalded, gave a grunt, and 
said, 

^ ” 1 ain’t d d-drunk a drop to-night, you lying old . I’m all 

right;” in testimony whereof he took the tumbler from her hand, 
spilling part of its contents with well -feigned tremor. ” Here, I 
say, sweet Polly, give us a kiss before j^ou go.” And drawing the 
frowzy damsel on his knee, he administered a smack which sounded 
like the application of a wet swab to a hollow deck. A box on the 
ear of equal resonancy followed this daring exploit, and the miser- 
able creatures who had been watching this scene laughed uproar- 
iously, w’hile the bar-maid, having taken a gulp out of the glass in 
sign of a cessation of hosti lilies, marched ott with her hands on her 
bips, giggling, and winking to some of her intimate friends as she 
went along. The mau, having gulped down a tew mouthfuls of 
the liquor, suffered the glass to fall on its side and empty its con- 
tents on the floor, and his head dropped forward again heavily on 
bis arms, outstretched upon the narrow plank which served for a 
table. 

This little scene, which had not passed unperceived by the oc- 
cupants of the next box, completely dissipated any suspicions they 
might have been disposed to entertain of their neighbor’s capacity 
for understanding their conversation, and they continued to talk 
freely, but in tones so low that the listener sometimes had the 
greatest difficulty in distinguishing the wmrds amid the drunken 
clamor of the other guests of the inn. 

“'When did he leave?” said the voice of Mr. Charles Pollard, 
pursuing some train of inquiry wffiich had been interrupted by the 
entrance of the sham mariner. 

“Yesterday afternoon, in the ‘Guadalquivir,’ for Galveston. 
He will find his w^ay from there to Vera Cruz, and the interior of 
Mexico, and thence to hell which is his ultimate destination.” 

“ Do— do you feel quite sure of him? Is he trustworthy?” 

The other laughed. 

“ You can trust him just as far as you see him, not one-hundredth 
part of an inch further.” 

“ But, good heavens, Yates—” 

“ D— n you, sir! 1 thought 1 told you never to mention names 
under any circumstances! In such business as ours dead men listen, 
and sometimes even talk, and drunken men have ears.” He got up 
hastily, and threw a quick but careful glance into the next box, 
from which at that moment proceeded a deep, stertorous breathing. 
“ It is infernally stupid,” he said, resuming his seat and the con- 
versation. “ If 3’'OU must use a name, can’t you call me Thrupp— 


120 


A AVEEK OF PASSIO^T. 


or why put yourself to the inconvenience of naming me at all? 
Ours is a societe anonyme, you know.” 

“ Ila! very good. 1 beg your pardon. 1 will try not to forget 
myself again. But I was going to ask, what do j’^ou mean? Surely 
you have not intrusted a— a matter of this importance to an irre- 
sponsible person?” 

” JMy dear friend and patron,” said the other, in a voice of rail- 
lery, ” is not my neck in danger as well as yours? J do not pretend 
to be better than 1 am— and I own that the stretching of your ele- 
gant collar-stump would not excite in my bosom any emotion be- 
yond that of regret that 1 had lost a friend whose interest it was to 
be generous; but I have some regard for my own. 1 selected this 
rascal because he was the very cleverest operator that ever engaged 
in — in the kind of business you wot of, and you know you gave him 
deuced little time to do the job in. Why, my dear fellow ”— the de- 
tective fancied he could see Mr. Charles Pollard wince under this 
familiarity, and from the expression he guessed that the speaker 
took a savage pleasure in annoying the solicitor by constantly as- 
suming this lone — ” 1 trust no one. 1 mean that 1 no more believe 
in our departed agent’s good faith, at whatever price you may seek 
to purchase it, than 1 do in yours, or in those of any other man wdio 
is not a lunatic or an enthusiast. I suppose certain noble persons, 
for instance, had some confidence in your integrity and good faith, 
or you would not have been in a position to make those irregular 
appropriations of their worldly substance which have driven you to 
seek the aid of a scientific expert to cover up ycur little errors. 1 
judge of a man’s honesty from the circumstances. When 1 know 
that he has more to lose than gain by betraying m3' confidence, 1 
trust him, and not otherwise. This man will keep quiet for the 
same reason that you or 1 shall keep quiet — it is a matter of life 
and death to him to do so.” 

” You — you are rather— cynical — captain — I mean — aren’t you?” 

” Call it anything you please— ‘ Give a dog a bad name ’—eh? Do 
you see the joke?” 

“ 1 confess,” replied the other, ‘‘ 1 am not able — ah — ” 

“Ah! you were never at the Universiiy probably? You don’t 
know the origin of the word cynic, 1 suppose?” said the broad- 
shouldered man, with a slight inflection of scorn. 

“ISo. I confess- ” 

“ 1 wonder you use it then. However, 1 am not going to act the 
tutor, though I am a Master of Arts. 1 was going to tell you about 
this gentleman, who is now tossing up and own in the ‘ Guadal- 
quivir,’ somewhere off the Lizards,"l suppose. 1 am sure of him 
only because he daren’t show nimself here again. He is at this mo- 
ment aflectionatelv being inquired after by the police, tor — a — well 
— to explain certain circumstances attending the demise of a lament- 
ed old gent in Hackney, a scion of the tribe of Judah and retired 
pawnbroker, who left his house about two months ago wfith a par- 
cel of diamonds— in wdiich valuable and easily-por table gems he 
continued to speculate after his retirement from business— took the 
train for Broad Street on his way to Hatton Garden —vanished like 
a dream— w'as never seen again, nor the diamonds either. Unfortu- 
nately, the police, who have had their eye on our friend for a long 


A ^VEEK OF PASSION. 


121 


time, though they uever could lay hold of auy direct proof against 
him, discovered that some one answerinir to his description had 
entered the compartment occupied by Mr. Cohen at Highbury, and 
they resolved to arrest him. However, he had a kindly intimation 
trom a friend in l5cotland li’ard, and just escaped by tlie skin of his 
teeth, for his house — he lived in a small, detached villa in the 
charming suburb of Fulham— was surrounded by detectives only a 
lew minutes after he had walked out of the back gate. He was a 
devilish shrewd fellow, and had often got oft scot-free, but he told 
me it was getting too hot for him in England, and that after one 
more big coup he meant to levant, but he would have one more. 1 
never saw such a fellow. He took as much pleasure in a robbery or 
a murder as a school-boy does in stripping an orchard. He would 
commit a crime, 1 verily believe, simply lor the excitement and 
peril of the thing; 1 don’t think the money to be gained ever had 
much to do with it. He once told me his histoiy. Prom a boy, he 
said, his main pleasure was to mystify and circumvent any one who 
had any authority over him— parents, tutors, professors, police — he 
was, in fact, a born criminal, with a love of the profession for its 
own sake. There are such fellows, you know.” 

A shudder seemed to pass through the frame of Mr. Pollard. He 
said, 

‘‘ Why, he’s a demon!” 

” W'ell,” said the other, with a harsh laugh, “ wdien you want the 
devil’s work done, you surely don’t expect to get an angel to do it 
for you?” 

This remark was evidently not palatable to the chief auditor. He 
snorted, coughed, cleared his throat, and stated that the smoke and 
closeness of the place had a disagreeable effect. 

” But,” he added, ‘‘ who is this man?” 

” 1 told .you,” said the other, ” that 1 object to mention names. 
He is, however, a German, a man of good education — graduated at 
Bonn— took to chemistry, in which he became very strong, and 
might have made a. fortune, for he is immensely clever. If any- 
body could have discovered the philosopher’s stone or the transmu- 
tation of metals, he was the man. He made a good deal of money 
in a legitimate way — invented some fine dyes— a new process of 
bleaching— a cartridge, which, 1 believe, is in use now in the Ger- 
man arniy — a process for mixing metals and producing some v\'on- 
derful imitations of gold and silver; in fact he is a regular genius— - 
or rather an irregular one; for no sooner had he invented anything 
than he sold the patents, rioted away till the money was spent, and 
then set his wits to work to devise some new sensation in chemistry 
or crime. He was a Socialist and Anarchist or professed to be — 
had to cut for his life once from Berlin, where he was mixed up in 
a plot to kill the emperor. He had invented small crystal bombs 
which, when broken, would send forth an odor so deadly and pow- 
erful that all living things within its influence perished. Old Kaiser 
William is used to stinks, for he lives on the Spree, to which a 

sewer is cologne- water; but this would have done for the old 

hypocrite if it had only once got within reach of his nostrils, and 
might have saved Europe a good deal of anxiety.” 

” Bah! my dear sir,” said the other. ” Come now, that is rather 


122 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


— a— a little isn’t it, now? Wouldn’t the stufl; have killed 

the manufacturer?” 

“ It very nearly did kill the manufacturer. Although he wore a 
glass mask, and an apparatus he had invented tor supplying him with 
air while he made his experiments, some the stud penetrated into 
his lungs, and it he had not been as strong as a bull he would have 
succumbed. Do you know how the scheme fell through?” 

” Of course 1 don’t.” 

“ Well, three Socialist conspirators were told otf to do the trick. 
They were to nab the emperor in his open phaeton in the Thiergar- 
ten. Our mutual friend had supplied each ot them with one ot his 
crystal stink-pots. They met to arrange their respective roles, and 
one of them, was holding one of the balls in his fingers when it 
dropped. Presto! all three of these ardent reformers went the way 
they intended to have sent ohl William — a proof that Providence, 
who seems of late years to go to sleep very often, now and then wmkes 
up. That was how the plot w; s discovered. Two of the German 
police, in searching the bodies, found the balls, and opening one to 
try it, fell victims of their curiosity. There was no chemist in Berlin 
who would undertake to analyze the third and only surviving bomb. 
Our friend crossed the frontier into Prance, and as the evidence 
against him was imperfect, the German Government did not succeed 
in its demand for an extradition. He has given the INihilists many 
useful hints — they have even published some of his damnable pre- 
scriptions in their journals in France— but these inventions labor 
under the disadvantage ot being so dangerous to the operators that 
they don’t like to try them. He has also, as 1 said, done a little 
business in destructive chemistry on his own hook. This last stroke 
was one of his cleverest combinations, but it did not succeed as com- 
pletely as he meant it to.” 

‘Confound it, Mr.— ahem! 1 mean — confound it! 1 wush you 
had employed some other agent, who would have taken a less in- 
genious and sen'^alional manner of operating. He has only excited 
the energies ot the police to the highest point. Had 1 known it, 1 
would never have consented to anything so utterly monstrous and 
horrible.” 

‘‘ Pooh! When you have made up your mind to the end, what 
odds does it make how the thing is done? Knock a man on the 
head— shoot him with a pistol— slash him with a knife; push him 
into tlie river— strangle bim — blow him up with nitro-glycerine — it 
all comes to the same thinL% my learned friend; and that thing is — 
marder.” 

He did not speak the fatal word aloud, but the eager listener on 
the other side of the partition guessed what it was. It evidently 
caused a profound emotion in the other hearer, who gave a kind of 
groan, and w^as silent for a minute. Then he said, 

” "Why do you say he did not succeed completely?” 

” Well, 1 will tell you. We had a little inkling, you knowg that 
a certain nobleman, who shall be nameless, was mixed up in this 
business, and w^e thought it wmuld be equally agreeable to you that 
he also should change his sphere of action. It was the German who 
suggested it, because he took a fancy to the cleverness of the com- 
bination, and I believe he wished to signalize his last appearance in 


A AVEEK OF PASSION. 


123 


England as an expert by a special and supreme tour deforce. You 
remember your instructions simply were that, the party, you know, 
was on no account to be allowed to meet the other party. Well, we 
had to ‘carry out our instructions ’—that’s the phrase, 1 think, in 
your profession?— at all events, in spirit. It would suit you equally 
well if they did meet and went off together. And we hit upon this 
method as the best, because it wasliuely to be mistaken for an Irish 
outrage. Wasn’t the earl once Lord Lieutenant, or Chief Secretary, 
or something, of Ireland? The plan was to get the destructive ma- 
chine slipped into the pocket of the gentleman we are alluding lo- 
se! to 20 off in half an hour, about ten minutes before he went into 
the house of the other parly— d’ye see? Then, to paraphrase the 
most vulgar of proverbs, we should have killed two birds with one 
torpedo, besides emptying a handsome aristocratic library of its 
books and furniture in less time than it takes to say ‘ Walker.’ In 
fact, it would been a case of pair saute ala liusse-, d’ye see? The 
explosive was of his own invention. He told me that it was leu 
times stronger tlian nitro glycerine, and that a machine the size of 
a watch would blow up half a house.” 

‘‘ Good heavens!” cried Mr. Charles Pollard, startled by the 
frightful statement which had just been made to him in a tone of 
quiet levity, which made even the detective’s blood run cold as he 
listened, ” you don’t mean to say you would have blown up an En- 
glish peer in his own house?” 

” Why not? What’s the odds?” retorted the other, sarcastically. 
“ There is no diQerence in point of criminality between blowing up 
a peer and a solicitor, is there? And my German being a Socialist, 
and on principle opposed to an aristocracy, wished to vindicate his 
political programme simultaneously with your private one. 1 can 
tell you, although for your part of it he has carried ofl. such a nice 
heavy parcel of her Majesty’s handsomest coinage to soothe his dis- 
appointment, 1 could hardly get him to leave the country, he was 
so vexed at the failure of his combination.” 

” How was it upset?” 

” Well, you see he was watching every movement of the— the 
party we are speaking of. There were three or four persons engaged 
in tlie service, for there is always some uncertainty in these opera- 
tions, and the German had alternative modes of doing the trick. 
Your friend, on his way to a certain square, went into a shop in 
Ptegent Street. The German followed him, under pretense of ask- 
ing the price of something, and he saw the showman hand out a 
little parcel, tied up, which the party put in his pocket. Our 
friend, who is as quick as lightning, immediately saw his chance. 
He purchased a small object in the shop, which they wrapped up 
in their own paper; it happens to be marked with their name. The 
part}’’ was detained a moment having his watch set and paying the 
bill. Leaving the shop and hastily going into a passage near by, the 
German set his little machine for half an hour, wrapped it up in 
the paper he had taken off the object bought in the shop, and going 
out, beckoned to one of his pals, and instructed him to run after 
the gentleman who had just come out of the shop, and was going 
up Regent Street, and say that he had been sent to say they had 
given him the wrong parcel. The old gent was shai'p enough, and 


A WEEK OE PASSIOK. 


lU 

was within an ace of finding out the trick; but it wouldn’t have 
made any matter, for, if he had tried to open the parcel, the machine 
would have gone oft all the same. Being, 1 suppose, pressed for 
lime, and seeing that the jeweler’s name was on the outside of the 
parcel he concluded it was all right, handed over the one he had 
received in the shop, and put the other in his pocket. Something 
went wrong with the machine; it exploded prematurely— killed the 
commoner and saved one nobleman, though, as the devil would 
have it, it has, I believe, nearly killed another.”. 

’I'he detective could not notice it, but had he been able to look at 
the carefully disguised face of Mr. Charles Pollard, he would have 
seen that horror and disgust were clearly painted upon il, while 
great drops ran down his forehead and stood out upon his face. 

The cool, malignant cynicism of the older criminal had set before 
the solicitor the wicked transaction in which he had been engaged 
in a light tar more clear and damning than could have been done 
by the effort of any moralist or religious preacher. The frank, un- 
disguised terms in which the crime was described and qualified 
made it utterly impossible for Charles Pollard to interpose those 
euphemisms which, in the experiences of religious casuistry, form 
a sort of flimsy paper screen between reason and conscience. This 
ruffian called a spade a spade, and spoke of murder as if it were 
really to be considered a “ fine art,” or, at all events, as if for nim 
it had ceased to have any moral meaning or consequence. Mr. 
Charles Pollard’s soul and conscience had never been imbued by 
nature, or penetrated by means of religion or culture, with those 
high principles, those pure sentiments and refined sensibilities of 
right, truth, honor, and integrity which, once transfused through a 
man’s being, there hold their place, because they have become a 
part of its essence, an element indestructible as the vehicle in which 
it is contained. Coming, as we have seen, young into a solicitor’s 
office, before his mind had been cultivated or his principles formed 
by converse with the great spirits of the past, or by contact with 
other young men of position and education, wdio are governed at 
least by such conventional views of right, duty, and morality as are 
current in every generation, Mr. Charles Pollard had been placed in 
a very indifferent school of morals. The firm of Pollard & Pollard 
stood high in the profession in one sense, because of those external 
qualities which give a great name to such a firm. They w^ere re> 
garded as rich, which placed them above suspicion, and which 
otherwise is an accident that keeps thousands of men straight wdio 
have no natural conscientiousness. It is worth while to keep a 
good name when one is wealthy; we don’t know that it is too 
cynical to say in the present state of society it is not worth while if 
one be poor. They were known to be sharp, been, hard men of 
business, flinching before no obstacle, resolute to win. When law- 
yers get that reputation, they inspire a respect akin to fear. They 
were first-class lawyers; they, and their chief clerk, and their com- 
mon-law clerks, and their chancery clerks, knew every turn and 
wrinkle of practice, a statement that could not be made of one firm 
in twenty of those who pretend to guide the affairs of their fel- 
low-citizens through the dismal maze of the English law. They 
had a large aristocratic and banking connection which made them 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK". 


125 


sociiilly and tinancially powerful ; the extent of their information 
regarding the private affairs of so many influential people gave 
them an incalculable moral and practical advantage in the profes- 
sion. Most solicitors who had to flght Pollard & Pollard began 
the struggle with a consciousness of being at a disadvantage. 

In the hurry of legal practice, the very judges are inadvertently 
affected by the repute of the firms engaged in the cases they have 
to decide upon, especially at chambers, wdiere now so much of the 
business is done, and where the result of the interlocutory proceed- 
ings may have an important influence on the fortunes of a suit. 
There a simple statement made in the name of Pollard & Pollard 
would often weigh more with a judge than an affidavit from the 
other side. 

It must necessarily be so. In the majority of cases the judge, 
who has practiced at the bar before he sal upon the bench, knows 
that the real facts are not before him. He does his best to ferret 
them out, but he is too often driven to make a hasty generalization 
of the probabilities. In such a case the standing and good uame of 
the attorneys who are wrangling before him are inevitably thrown 
into the scale. The judge is human; he can not help it. He is 
unconsciously biased in favor of respectability, and in nine cases 
out of ten justly. The tenth man is the victim of that chance 
which governs the affairs of the wmrld. The highest degree to 
which human jurisprudence can ever hope to attain is to reduce the 
proportion of the blunders of justice to below twenty per cent of 
the cases adjudicated upon. 

Let a firm of solicitors once acquire this reputation tor sharpness, 
shrewdness, and success, they are bound to maintain it. But they 
can not always be on the right side. The largest proportion of 
affairs which come within the range of a lawyer’s practice are the 
affairs of dishonest people. In every case one side or the other is 
wrong; in most cases one or the other part}’' is consciously wu*ong. 
When litigants are sincerely desirous to know and to do what is 
just, they generally manage to come to terms. Hence Pollard & 
Pollard must very often have been on ihe wrong side in the eye of 
a moralist, while in the eye of a man oi business and of English 
morality they were bountl by their duty to their client, and by their 
reputation, to leave no stone unturned to win. In such a case men 
are obliged to turn over many dirty stones, and in doing so must 
soil their fingers. They wipe them on the clean towel of their repu- 
tation, and the world never sees the stains, which seem to be ab- 
sorbed and disappear. Now and then, at the touch of a chemical 
called publicity, they come out again black and foul. 

For a youth whose moral character is yet to be molded the at- 
mosphere of such an office is not the best that could be selected. 
It is charged wMth injurious influences. There are no gross, fla- 
grant immoralities, but there are all the daily, hourly, petty tricks 
and struggles to get the better of the other side throughout the pro- 
longed and complicated proceedings of a suit. Such a case, ad- 
mitted to be a bad one, is being fought simply to gain time— another 
by Dives against Davus is prolonged to force the poorer to a settle- 
ment from sheer want of funds. The directors of a gieat railway, 
who have deliberately and intentionally charged too high a rate for 


126 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


transport of goods, are at length sued by some unfortunate man 
■who is more obstinate than wise, and is fool enough to credit the 
maxim of the English law that “ there is no wrong without a 
remedy.” Their directions to their solicitor are very simple: 

” He wants to go to law. (Jive him a bellyful. We will fight 
the case to the House of Lords. He is not srood for £5000.” 

By the time he has finished with the lords-justices our chi^alric 
suitor is in the Bankruptcy Court, or compromises the case to save 
himself a disagreeable visit to Mr. Brougham. It is not possible 
for men who act as the agents in such transactions to have very ele- 
vated moral sentiments, though they may in all other matters live 
and behave as if they had tuem. Habit lias put a blind side on the 
conscience, just as the “ custom of trade ” is a screen which hides 
many of their own iniquities from the eyes of mercbauts who are 
monuments of philanthropy and pillars of religion. 

The air that Mr. Charles Pollard breatlied, while his character 
was in course of formation, was unhealthy. He was taking in 
moral poison as unconsciously, but not less surely, than the victim 
who adsorbs tlie unseen, insidious organisms which propagate a 
cholera or a typhoid. And just as in such diseases the germs may 
be harmlessly absorbed and their presence never manifest itself, so, 
had not circumstances been favorable, he might have lived and died 
wulhout developing the moral microbes which had secretly fastened 
on the vitals of bis soul. But the favorable conditions of develop- 
ment were unhappily created. The disease began slowly to do its 
work. 

He had been struck, in going carefully over the papers of the de- 
ceased Earl of Tilbur}", by the astounding success of that shrewd 
and lucky peer in his speculations .in stocks. Charmed and dazed 
by the colossal figures of the wealth which was detailed before his 
eyes, covetousness entered into his soul. The earl’s combination in 
the Stockton railway shares particularly fascinated the solicitor. 
He resolved to have his part in it. It was a secret which had been 
well kept, and which was only disclosed to Mr. Pollard in profes- 
sional confidence. He bought largely and held the shares. They 
steadily went up. He sold too soon, but at an immense profit. 
Having once bitten, he bit again. This time the hook caught him. 
He had been advised to sell for a fall; the shares continued to rise, 
though the general market went down. In fad, the movement 
foreseen by the earl and Mr. Plnxton went on unchecked. The 
American group were gradiiall}" absorbing the stock. Thus Mr. 
Charles Pollard and his uncle, who had been made acquainted with 
the success of the earlier ventures, found themselves in a serious 
position. They were “ short ” of a large quantity of Stocktons, 
and were effectively “cornered.” To have bought them in would 
have run the shares up to an impossible figure and have ruined the 
firm. In this extremity the moral poison which might have lain 
dormant through a long aud successful life developed its presence. 
They “ borrowed ” the shares belonging to the Tilbury estate. To 
do so it was necessary to forge the name of the executor. The 
alternative was very sharply defined. It was that or ruin. Pollard 
& Pollard Tvmuld hare been forced to lie in the mud and be danced 
on merrily by the sensational reporters and the big-wigs of the Law 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


127 

Association. The deed wjis done. Other deeds followed. They 
were on the fatal Avernian slide. How far had they not descended? 

And yei Mr. Charles Pollard, listening to the cynical wretch who 
was the purchased agent of his guilt, shuddered with a very sincere 
horror at the heartless levity and coolness of the manner in which 
the latter discussed things which the solicitor— his principal— 
would have liked to wrap up in the silver paper of euphemism, and 
so make it more palatable to his queasy conscience. Not that he re- 
gretted what he had done— it had been done deliberately, as an act 
of necessity— blit that he could not yet regard it wdth the callous 
indifference exhibited by his infamous agent. Hence his disgust 
had almost assumed the character of a moral reaction, jMuch of 
the moral indignation of the world is of about the same quality, 
though occasionally it may be a little higher in degree. 

The disguised solicitor could not help expressing the feeling 
which had risen in his gorge. He cleared his throat and began, 

“ Captain — ” 

“ Captain what, now? D— n it, man, will you drop your infer- 
nal affectation? Pm not a client. If you don’t care lor your own 
neck. 1 tell you, 1 do for mine. It’s lucky the fellow in the next 
box is as dead drunk as a hoghshead in bond. Well, what w^ere 
you going to remark, my ingenious Quack of Quarrels?” 

This irreverent gibe at his professional honor and dignity seemed 
to offend the solicitor more seriously than other remarks had done 
which were simply at the expense of his moral character. So it is 
often to be observed that men will bear with complacency jokes at 
the expense of their personal purity, while they will deeply resent 
any reflection on their political or professional or commercial stand- 
ing. He manifested his displeasure with indiscreec emphasis. 

Whatever 3 'our name is, then, 1 tell you, you are a perfect 
devil!” 

“Ta-ta! my worthy pal and patron — alliterative, don’t you see? 
Never mind calling names. I touched you there in a soft place — 
eh? Quack of Quarrels! Ha, ha! Ton my word, liow 1 think of 
it, d — d good! Another alliteration by G — ! Who says a man 
must not laugh at his own joke? Ha, ha, ha! And look you, my 
worthy pal and patron — when you talk of me in such terms 1 
should like to know what the devil you call yourself — eh? There’s 
a maxim in your own profession — though you don’t know the clas- 
sics you may understand what it mQ^ms—Qui facit per alium facit 
per se. Now if 1 am a devil and do devil's work, ] should like to 
know what my employer is.” 

The sophism was ingenious, and quite sufficient to silence Mr. 
Pollard. 

From the man’s tone and manner, the listening detective judged 
that the contents of a bottle which stood between the Master of 
Arts and the solicitor had begun to produce some effect, and he 
hoped now to obtain more specific information; but the speaker, 
suddenly becoming aw’are that he had elevated his voice, dropped 
it, and said a few words which it w^as impossible to overhear. The 
detective, however, thought he could distinguish the wmrds 
” money ” yacht ” swift and sure ” steam up.” 

Mr. Charles Pollard now also spoke in a low and earnest tone. 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


128 

The listener strained his ear to the utmost, but he could only now 
and then catch a word, like “ thousand ” — “ police ” — “ inqui- 
ries throw them ofi; the track.” At length he overheard tiiese 
words distinctly uttered by the disguised solicitor: 

“ 1 am assured that the police have no suspicion as to the iden- 
tity.” 

“ No matter,” said the other. ”1 want to get away from this. 
You must fork out that last four thou. Our German friend took 
two with him, and L have spent the rest among our pals who 
helped us about those letters to the police. It’s been a tidy job, 1 
can tell you. It will take them a year in Scotland Yard to unravel 
all those yarns. Now 1 want to know whether you’re ready to 
come down with the dust?” 

‘‘ Really Mr. — my dear sir— you are too exijong\ 1 brought you 
this to-night ” — there was a movement, and a transfer of something 
which gave out a delicate metallic sound — ‘‘ there are a thousand 
ot thein there. 1 really think you ought to be content with this for 
the present.” 

” Look here, damme!” retorted the other, savagely, and dropping 
his careless, cynical tone for one which w^as full of sinister mean- 
ing — ‘‘ no more humbug with me. Are you going to do it, or are 
you not?” 

” Anil suppose 1 don’t I” said the solicitor, with a sudden flash of 
auger and obstinacy. What can you do?” 

” Supposing you don’t?” said the other, with a ferocious laugh. 
“ Why, only this, that in a few hours a full account of the whole 
business will be in the hands of — you know who; they will be glad 
enugh to purchase the evidence of some one who is not a principal, 
and you will swing for it— that’s all, my Quack of Quarrels. Hal” 

The detective imagined that a deadly pallor spread over the 
other's face, and that the threat had its effect, for after a pause he 
could hear a voice, strangely muffled and trembling with emo- 
tion, say, 

“ \ery well. You shall have it to morrow night.” 

” Come, now, that’s more reasonable. , You can’t expect people 
to risk their necks in your business for a few beggarly hundreds. 
Three thou.— down on the nail to-morrow night— and no backing 
out, or — ” The speaker substituted some expressive gesture for the 
words. ‘‘And look here, we’ll change the venue. We’ve met 
here often enough. What do you say to running down to Graves- 
end to-morrow night, and meeting me at the ‘Three Tuns’? In 
disguise of course. M'e can go on board and settle it there. Come 
down dressed as a swell, and go on board as my friend.” 

At this moment a slim, beggarly-looking fellow, who had glided 
up the room unperceived by the two conspirators or by the spy, 
who kept his face down upon his anus, touched the broad-shoul- 
dered man and whispered a few words to him in the argot of Uie 
criminal class, which evidently created a little sensation in the 
mind ot the Master of Aits. After exchanging a few sentences rap- 
idly with the new-comer, the latter shambled away to the other end 
of the room, and the ex-University man said, 

‘‘ There’s a bobby been roving about at the end of the street tor 
an hour, and he’s evidently on the lookout for somebody. But 1 


A AVEEK OE PASSIOX. 


]29 

have every street watched. We had better go. Here’s a back door 
and private exit, close on the left. We won’t wait to pay the 
reckoning. Sally Blair knows me. We must file. I’ll put you m 
a way to get round to your old-clo’ shop. Quick.” 

He made a dart through a door cut in the wainscoting, and which 
would ordinarily have passed unnoticed. The other followed him, 
forgetting, in his excitement, the limp which belonged to his dis- 
guise. 

The detective glanced round. No one seemed to have taken any 
notice of the exit of the two men. He hesitated a moment. He 
was^ unarmed. There was no doubt that the gang engaged in this 
business was a clever and desperate one. He had no idea whither 
that door might lead. But it was of first-rate importance that he 
should find out who this redoubtable rascal was who spoke of mur- 
der as coolly as a butcher would speak of his benevolent occupa- 
tion. Professional ambition, and the desire to have the credit of 
unwinding this horrible plot, got the better of his discretion. He 
suddenly rose, and in t\\o steps he had passed through the door. 
He found himself in a long corridor, imperfectly lit by a dull sort 
of twilight, which emanated from behind a small ground-glass win- 
dow pierced in the W'all on the right. He could hear no sound ex- 
cept a loud snoring, which pn^ceeded from the room behind the 
glass. At the end was a door. He stepped along quickly and si- 
lently. The door was shut by a spring-lock, opening by a key from 
the outside, and easily slipped back by a knob from within. In 
another moment he was in the open air, Around him was a large, 
damp, dirty yard, partly filled with old iron, old rags, tarpaulins, 
ends of ropes, and such gear. A moment earlier and he w'ould have 
been perceived. Two figures were just passing out of a gate-way at 
the extreme end of the yard. Beyond it could be seen a dark, flash- 
ing current, with here and there a light floating on it, and the ir- 
regular groups and lines of lamps on the Surrey side of the river. 
Cautiously making his way to the gate, he put his head out. Two 
figures were wmlking along a low path, or lather, a sort of broken 
nnd slimy causeway, which led along the shore. He hesitated for 
a moment, look out a whistle, and actually put it in his mouth. 
The men were proceeding in the opposite direction from the street 
where the policeman, his rear-guard, was waiting for his signal.. But 
he changed his purpose, pocketed the whistle, and began to follow 
the retreating figures, taking advantage of every door-way of pro- 
jection to hide his movements. At length they disappeared in the 
gloom. Hastening his sbps, he found, as he expected, that a nar- 
row lane led up to the main thoroughfare. The ferm of one man 
only could be dimly discerned at the other end, about thirty yards 
off." it vanished, limping round the corner. The detective listened. 
There was no movement, no sign of the second person. After wait- 
ing a few minutes he heard a step on the causeway behind him. He 
resolved to give up the chase, and proceeded slowly up the middle 
of the narrow lane. He had not taken ten steps w'hen his neck Was 
seized wdth a powerful grip from behind and the cold muzzle of a 
pistol pressed on Ins temple. 

” Utter a sound, and you are a dead man'” said a voice, which 
he recognized as that of Mr. Charles Pollard’s companion. 


130 


A WEEK OF PASSION". 


At the same instant a match was struck. It flared up for a mo- 
ment on four faces, two directly opposite the, unfortunate detective, 
one at his side, and one his own, ghastly with sudden fear. Four 
gleaming eyes were fixed for a moment on his features, and sud- 
denly glared with ferocious intelligence as one cried, in a hoarse 
whisper. 

“ McLaren!” 

Simultaneously the match went out; two long knives were 
plunged up to the hilt in the detective’s breast, and, with a long 
sigh, he fell to the ground a corpse. 

” Lie will tell no tales now!” said the principal, calmly. ” What 
the h— did he come down poking round here for, 1 should like to 
know?” 


CHAPTER Xll. 

A CHANGE OF TACTICS. 

The business of the great firm ot Pollard & Pollaid was carried 
on as briskly and feverishly as ever. Clients and solicitors, clerks 
and messengers, came and went, like the tides, in perpetual flux 
and reflux, bringing in and carrying away from this great and busy 
centei ot legal aflairs heavy freights of the products ot legal in- 
genuity — writs, summonses, notices of action, notices of applica- 
tions, notices to do this, notices not to do that, notices to swear the 
other thing: notices in the Common Law Division, and notices in 
the Chancery Division of the High Court of Justice, or in Bank- 
ruptcy, or in the County or Palatine Courts; interrogatories and 
answers to interrogatories; draft affidavits and sworn affidavits, affi- 
davits ot service and non-service, affidavits in answer to affidavits 
made in support of affidavits, and affidavits that there were no affi- 
davits; briefs of title-deeds, draft-deeds; wills and drafts of wills;, 
briefs for counsel to advise, to settle, to appear — for counsel to at- 
tend and consent, for counsel to attend and oppose; opinion of 
counsel, draft documents ot every kind for the stationer or the 
printer; and in the middle of all this paper flutter and agitation, all 
this bandying to and fro of parchments, all this come and go of 
bus 3 % eager, anxious, joyous, troubled, victorious, beaten, combat- 
ive, satisfied and disappointed crowd of clients, attorneys and 
clerks a small knot ot employes taking notes ot every scrap ot 
paper that went in and out, of every momeni; devoted to any busi- 
ness by any one in the establishment, from the senior partner to 
the messenger boys — of every visit ard visitor; Jotting it all down 
carefully, minute by minute, in registers, which, by and by to be 
consulted by trained intelligence, would evolve the golden ‘‘par- 
ticulars ” of that masterpiece ot iniquity, a lawyer’s bill. 

Whatever agitation might disturb the breasts of the partners in 
this great firm, business must be done. They must receive their 
clients, supervise and direct the numberless proceedings wdiich w^ere 
always running on and constantly spinning themselves into a tangle,, 
devote their personal attention to confidential interviews and corre- 
spondence, be ever quick, alert,, sharp, clear, cool, sure— and some- 
times gay. It may readily be imagined that of late neither of the 


A WEEK or PASSIOK. 


131 

Messrs. Pollard had found themselves quite up to these varied re- 
quirements of their troublesome profession. The past few years of 
weary and feverish struggle with fortune had aged them both very 
visibly. Their clerks and professional brethren "had noticed it, and 
said they were too successful, and worked too hard. Judicious 
friends had counseled them to take in a partner or partners, but 
they did not seem to be inclined to share their anxieties with any 
partner. Their doctors had warned them that too much brain-work 
was dangerous, which was like telling a consumptive patient in a 
' shipwreck that it will injure him to swim. 

Mr. Charles Pollard’s earlier speculations, when he had taken his 
<3ue from the papers of the deceased Earl of Tilbury, had been re- 
markably brilliant and successful in their results. So much so that 
on the strength of them the partners had purchased a large building 
estate, which had proved a very heavy drag on their resources, for 
as is well known to these who have tried it, the motto of a building 
estate is exactly the reverse of “ small profits, quick returns.” The 
profits must be very large to fill in the blood which is being drawn 
out of the body by the ever-sucking leech called ” Interest,” and 
the returns are generally spread over a long series of years. And 
Messrs. Pollards’ building speculation had not been a happy one. It 
was not, however, generally known that they were interested in it. 
Solicitors rarely invest in their own name, and they were supposed 
to be acting for an unnamed client. Moreover, encouraged by their 
primary success, Mr. Charles Pollard had bought a handsome but 
expensive property in Kent, where amateur hop-growing and im- 
proven^ents and building had swallowed up what amounted to a 
very fair fortune. And lastly, luck had not held firm in his gambling 
in Copthall Court; and the more he plunged to redeem his losses, 
the deeper had he sunk in the horrible quicksands of the Stock Ex- 
change. Thus, a firm whose resources a few years before could 
have been counted in liundreds of thousands, and all in good lands, 
houses, or mortgages, had been reduced, at the time when our his- 
tory opens to the most precarious expedients tor keeping their busi- 
ness on foot and for answering to their engagements. Some of 
those expedients have already been disclosed, others hinted at. Erom 
a desperate situation to a desperate expedient is only a short step, 
and once upon the fatal slide the steps grow long and quick. The 
first ones, taken with shrinking shame, soon changed into firm, 
resolute plunges into fraud and crime. 

When men who have been honorable, and respected for their 
business shrewdness and capacity, become criminals, they carry, 
of course, into their criminal conduct all the qualities which gave 
them distinction in affairs. They become criminels d'elite. The 
work they turn out is neater, more perfect, and finer than that of the 
vulgar operator. All the acuteness of intelligence, all the compre- 
hensive grasp of conditions and requirement”, all the untiring en- 
ergy and quick, constant circumspection which made them great iu 
business, will make them masters in crime. In reading the history 
of the Middle Ages, when the distinctions betw’een crime and inno- 
cence were not so sharply defined as they have since become, and 
the greatest men made it a study, with marked success, to be distin- 
guished criminals, we are all able to perceive to how high a stand- 


132 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


ard of excellence in execution and results crime may be elevated. In 
more modern days, men liReRedpatliand Bontoux have made crime 
interestina, and even romantic, by the masterly intelligence they 
liave displayed in the commission of it. 

Thus Pollard & Pollard transferred to their nefarious operations 
all the trained skill in legal practice, all the knowledge of law^ all 
the shrewd, hard cunning, all the cold-blooded calmness of judg- 
ment and inflexibility of action — in flne, as we have said, all the 
qualities which had made them eminent solicitors. Add to this the 
verve which enters into men’s actions when their life, their property, 
and their standing before their fellow-men are in danger, and we 
have the making of a very dangerous criminal association. ■ 

The task, therefore, which lay before Mr. Sontag and the Earl of 
Selby and George Barton wms a redoubtable one. Two able i^illains 
with their backs to the wall, resolved to die hard and to hesitate at 
nothing, had to be surprised and captured, so that justice might be 
done upon them. 

After that interview with the earl related in the sixth chapter of 
this history, they had held a prolonged and aaitated conference. 
His attitude during that interview had surprised them. Subtle and 
practiced as they were in critical discussions, where the object is to 
disclose nothing to the other side and to extract everything, that at- 
titude had, moreover, somewdiat contused them. 

Knowing how serious a matter it was for the earl that the ques- 
tionable transaction with Lady Tilbury into which they hud en- 
trapped him should be covered up, and having, unfortunately for 
themselves, formed a very exaggerated idea of the breach which they 
imagined had been created between the earl and his agent by the 
disclosure of the facts, they had really fancied— as the peer, with 
remarkable acuteness, had begun to suspect — that he would be grati- 
fied by the disappearance of this troublesome intermeddler. The 
elder Barton, they knew, was introduced into the business at the 
special request of the Earl of Tilbury; and the Earl of Selby, in 
notifying them that he was not in a position to refuse the request,, 
had expressed his chagrin at it. But Pollard & Pollard did not 
know how the attitude assumed by the elder Barton when the earl 
made his contessiou to him had reconciled the peer to the interven- 
tion which he had previously dreaded so much. Besides, they were 
not conscious to how great an extent their own moral status had 
been lowered by tneir criminal practices, and they were unable ac- 
curately to measure the distance betw^een the act which the earl had 
committed once, and deeply repented of, and the crime which they 
had incited in order to cover up that and their other delinquencies. 
This blindness ot criminals to moral efEects and consequences, this 
incapacity for measuring the moral standards of others, is one of 
the most salient evidences of that distortion ot the entire nature 
which results from evil-doing. The earl’s suspicion was correct. 
The two partners had delicately felt the ground in order to see 
whether Lord Selby, who would profit, as they thought, by the 
crime, could not be drawn into the combination to veil it from the 
eyes of justice. 

But to their astonishment and terror, the earl did not catch at the 
bait which was so cunningly thrown to him. He had suddenly, of 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


13a 


his own motion, rejected the idea that George Barton the elder had 
disappeared witn the bands, or because, as they had sucgested, his 
own accounts were not in order. He had protested against that 
clever move of theirs— the insertion of an advertisement offering a 
reward for information and for papers which were in their own 
hands, with the view of diverting from themselves a suspicion 
against which, as they ought to have remembered, their standing 
and reputation was a perfect guarantee. Still more were they dis- 
turbed by the earl’s proposal to offer a reward for the murderers so 
soon as he w’as satisfied that George Barton had been murdered. 
And the last deadly stroke to their self-possession was struck when 
they learned that, after all, the damning evidence was not sup- 
pressed, for George Barton’s son knew’ all that tliey supposed had 
been carried alone in the breast of their victim. In advertising as- 
they had done, they had reckoned without that. They knew the 
elder Barton was as close as an iron safe. Who could have suspected 
that he w’ould make a confidant of a young man twenty-three years 
of age in a matter involving the character of a peer of the realm and 
an eminent firm of solicitors? 

“ 1 never heard of such a thing!’’ said "Mr. Joseph Pollard, 
trembling wdth virtuous indignation." “ Such a breach of confidence 
—so unprofessional! 1 couldn’t have believed it of George Barton, 
if you had swmrn it to me on the Bible!” This rvas addressed, of 
course, to his nephew and associate. 

There w’as no doubt whatever that, in this instance at least, the 
liigh moral indignation of the senior partner w’as sincere; and very 
likely all the professional brethren of ]\Ir. George Barton, senior, 
wdio read this history, will consider that a serious blot rests 
upon his memory. Kor do we propo e to defend his conduct, ex- 
cept on the ground that, had he behaved more circumspectly, a 
great deal of the romantic interest of this history would have been 
lost. 

Tire tw’o partners made an odd pair of criminals. Mr. Joseph 
was old and experienced, Mr. Charles was young and clever. 

The elder, trained in the old-fashioned school of the profession, 
when suits pursued the quiet tenor of their w’ay year after year, and 
business was transacted by the great firms with a certain majestic 
dignity and repose, was a sound, careful, practical lawyer, rather 
disturbed in his balance by the new-fangled, hurried methods of 
procedure, but cool, accurate, unimpressionable. The younger had 
all the faults and characteristics of the modern school. lie was 
quick, keen, alert, not profound in his law, but making up for his 
ignorance by the rapidity of his intuitions and appreciations; as 
versatile, as impressionable as a poet while he w’as as shrewd and 
voracious as an usurer. 

There was a physical difference, as we have already intimated, 
between the tw’o men, which corresponded with the distinctions of 
their character. One was tall, thin, and active, the other was of 
middle size, square figure, and deliberate movement, George Sand, 
in one of her books, “Le Beau Laurence,” makes one of those re- 
rnaiks, at once quaint and profound, with which her pages are 
starred. She says: ” Ceux clout Vcxil etenclu emhmsse tout, sont 
2 )lcistiques ; au coniraire, ceux cqui out hesoiii de regcirder de pres,, 


134 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


sont spedalistes.'’ Charles Pollard, though he carried glasses from 
affectation, had an eye as keen and quick as a hawk’s, and it was 
his nature to be influenced by the immense variety of objects which 
came within his horizon. The elder man was, anil always had been, 
short-sighted. Without his glasses the few forms which came witbin 
the narrow circle of his vision were generalized. He was, as George 
Sand says, “a specialist.” He mastered everything which came 
within his range; he never speculated as to what lay beyond it. 
How much came to be drawn by the lighter forces of his nephew 
into the direful ways which they were now jointly pursuing is one 
of those problems of the human character which dely the subtlest 
analysis. It is roughly explained by the simple word “money;” 
but even in an age when money is the supreme controller, purchaser, 
and guarantor of success, that does not sufficiently explain the 
aberration of this mediocre but practical intellect. We must look 
deeper, and examine the moral principles in which those who make 
successful men of business are initiated, to find the key to this 
puzzle. 

When Mr. Charles Pollard had descended upon the arena of the 
Slock Exchange, he w^as brought into association with some very 
strange characters. Among the brokers and the jobbers he found 
a good many of the riff raff and rejections of all professions. This 
one had been a guardsman, that a lawyer, that a Dissenting 
preacher, that a solicitor — struck oft the rolls. There were barris- 
ters who had been briefless, and there were bankrupt merchants 
and commission agents; there were ancient venders of old clothes 
and Levantine frmts, and Spaniards and Greeks w’ho had dealt in 
slaves; there were broken-down actors anfl ex- journalists; a jovial 
crew, among whom walked the graver and more honorable opera- 
tors and brokers: doing business with them? oh yes! but bolding up 
the tails of their coats to preserve them from contamination, some- 
times even obliged to shake hands with their vulgar and dubious as- 
sociates— but then one’s hands can be washed. The spots on one’s 
clothes are sometimes not so easy to take out, and the clothes make 
the man. 

’file crew, however, leads a jolly life. Money comes and goes 
quickly with it. Many of these men who won and spent their 
money with almost royal ease, had their little establishments at 
Brighton and elsewhere, generally in the environs of London, 
wdiere, with a luxurious interior, a w^ell-fllled cellar, and a pretty 
woman, with extensive associations among the elite of the demi- 
monde and the vastly-increasing circle of “ artistes ” and actresses, 
they went their way of feverish folly with corrplete abandonment. 
Into this strange world, existing completely apart and by itself, ex- 
isting— yet hardly suspected by the millions which surround it— 
with its own manners, and customs, its own higher and lower 
circles, its own language, and its special rules and ideas of morality, 
Mr. Charles Pollard, still young, and only freshly emancipated, had 
been first introduced, under a disguise, by an obliging broker, and 
had gradually made his way until he had become familiar with ail 
its secrets. By this means he had been brought into contact, from 
time to time, with very doubtful characters; tor if the demi-monde 
holds on with one hand to the aiistocracy, its other is clasped by 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


135 


CTi'minals and swindlers. Thus he had come to hear m 5 '-sterioiisly» 
among some ot the confidences exchanged in this free-and-easy 
society, of every class and of no class, of wealthy parvenus seeking 
a distraction, wild young aristocrats giving loose play to their pas- 
sions, gamblers of every descriptinn— of the turf, the >5tock Ex- 
change, and the private hells, or so-called, clubs — wine merchants,, 
money-lenders, forgers, swindlers, thieves, all mixed up together, 
all preying on each other and on society, and all connected, bylines 
more or less loose, with a marvelous variety of adventuresses, who 
introduced into this strange medley all the elements ot romance and 
all the bizarreries of perverted sentiment— he had come, 1 say, to 
hear, now and then, mysterious hints given and taken that in cer- 
tain emergencies Brooks or Yates or Levy or Kigaud or V^an Pool 
“ was your man.” Things were spoken of openly before him 
which, as a solicitor, compromised him by the very knowdedge of 
them— transactions were boasted of that were more than questiona- 
ble— and allusions were made which proved that some of these gay 
associates did not always keep themselves within the strict limits of 
the laws of the realm. Ihis initiation had been very gradual, for 
Mr. Charles Pollard’s first excursions into the outer edges of this 
circle of folly had been timorous and circumspect. He had even 
learned to be ingenious in disguises, and only one or two brokers, 
who were sufficiently interested in preserving his secrets, knew of 
the identity of this occasional apparition in the coulisses of society 
with the partner of one of the great legal firms. It was in this way 
that Mr. Charles Pollard came to form the acquaintance of men 
whom he could engage for any illegitimate purpose, by the use of 
that argentine persuasive of which he had an unlimited control. 

This brief explanation may suffice, without penetrating more 
deeply into the secrets of this society, to explain to the reader how 
the solicitor came to find agents ready to his hand for his criminal 
purposes. 

He had met a man known as “ Captain ” Tom Yates, a tall, broad- 
shouldered fellow, of gentlemanly address and manners, except 
when he w^as thrown off his balance by drink or bad luck, who 
showed by his conversation and accent that he had been well edu- 
cated, and brought up in good society. This man was in every way 
mysterious. Sometimes he was to be seen in the City, mixed up 
in some of the thrusand and one projects for extracting money from 
the. trustful public which take the name ot “public companies.’" 
and express themselves in prospectuses and articles ot association. 
In this character he had been concerned in not a few successful, 
and many disastrous “ issues,’’ and had found himself cheek by 
jowl with some of the great financiers of the City. He was w^ell 
known at a couple of clubs at the West End, where higli play was 
secretly carried on, and on one occasion was brought into unpleas- 
ant notice by a scandal arising out of the loss of seveial thousand 
pounds by a stranger introduced at the Melton Club, and severely 
pillaged at what was alleged to be whist. For this the committee, 
so soon as public attention had been drawn to the matter through 
the police-courts, had inviteit him to resign; an invitation he ac- 
cepted. He was a first-class billiard-player, though he never showed 
his best form, which was only known to one or two markers; but 


136 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


he played re^iularly at liis remaining club and in two well-known 
saloons, and made a very respectable living in this way alone. He 
always seemed to be able to command plenty of money for his vices, 
though the “ means ” were anything but “ visible.” He was seen 
occasionally at Paris, at Nice, at Cannes, at Monaco, rarely playing, 
always mysterious, and now and then at Pesth, wdiere there is a 
noted cafe in the Eadial Strasse, which is said to be an international 
mart or exchange of valuables, whose holders have private reasons 
for not openly "exposing their identity. In fact Mr. Yates was one 
of those curious nondescripts, abounding in London, who live on 
the outer edge of gentlemen’s society, are never admitted to that of 
any honorable woman, and are treated with a certain toleration by 
people who feel that, if they are suspectible, there are no actual 
proofs of malfeasance to be produced against them. What he was, 
however, in the intimacy of private friendship the reader has al- 
ready seen. Captain Yates was the companion of Mr. Charles Pol- 
lard at the Dutch Lugger. 

Mr. Charles, ignorant of the tragedy which had taken place a few 
minutes after he had departed from the captain on the previous 
night, and little imagining wLat grave events were in pickle for him 
during the day that had dawned, arrived at his office in somewhat 
better spirits than he had exhibited for some time. The captain was 

” hard nail,” he admitted to himself, but then nothing was too 
dear which assured to Pollard & Pollard immunity from ruin and 
the hangman He did not grude eight or ten thousand pounds for 
that. Schultz was out of the reach of the police, another good job; 
for, if he had been caught on the other charge, he was quite capa- 
ble of trying to arrange a little bargain lor gentlemanly treatment 
on condition of disclosing the plot against Mr. Barton. The miss- 
ing documents were in the wine-cellar of his country house, at the 
bottom of his oldest bin of port, which looked as if it had not been 
disturbed for years. 

But Mr. Charles did not find his more sedate uncle and partner at 
all in a humor to share his superficial content. On the contrary, 
Mr. Joseph Pollard looked atrabilious; and as to the weather inside, 
with him the barometer was down to “ very stormy.” He had been 
reflecting with all his specialist intensity, and in the limited circle 
•of his practical vision everything looked gloomy and threatening. 
His lips were blue, and trembled as he spoke. He had come in a 
little later than his nephew, who was busily reading the morning’s 
correspondence. He listened in silence to Charles’s naive report, 
mid shook his head. 

” Charlie,” he said, “there is no use concealing from ourselves 
that we are in a very perilous position. 1 dare say you are right — 
those fellows are safe enough, simply because their heads are in 
pawn. That is not wffiere our danger lies. We made a great mis- 
take in issuing that advertisement before we had committed Selby 
to it. Now where are we? Young Barton, the eail says, knows 
everything— it old Barton told him one thing, he told him all. He 
knows about the dealing with the shares— a bad business, Charlie— 
the beginning of all our troubles; he knows about the receipt, pos- 
sibly has it in his possession; he knows about that hundred thou- 
sand pounds, though, thank Heaven! that’s arranged for. Now, 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


137 


you see, even it the carl had been willing to keep silent about the 
naiure ot those documents, provided w'ehad made the loss good and 
covered up all these transactions, young Barton wmn’t allow it to 
remain quiet, because he wdll want 'to clear the old man’s memory. 
The police will be down upon us at once for a list ol them — 1 won- 
der they haven’t been here tor it already — then they will go to the 
Countess ot Tilbury tor explanations, and then the whole business 
is out. We shall have to explain the transactions — the dhrl won’t 
back us up— he’ll square it with the Tilburys and let the cat out ot 
the bag. Ot course, his character will sufter, but what is that to a 
peer ot the realm, especially when those most interested will do 
everything to hush it up? Then we shall be asked to explain the 
theory we have put tor ward of George Barton’s disappearance and 
embezzlement. It will be hinted that it was our interest to get rid 
of him to cover up our own defalcations — ” 

“ Tcs; but, my dear uncle, what evidence is there? You are go- 
ing on a number of hypotheses wdiich are tar from probable. Old 
Barton had that receipt in his pocket-book — mark my w'ords. 
Whatever he told young Barton about us is not evidence. We can 
easily explain away that matter ot account.” 

” Possibly. But the shares — the certificates. It the old man told 
him about that, he can get the evidence ot the forgery and the trans- 
fers from New Yoik.” 

“Hum! There is something in that” 

“ There is a good deal in it!” cried the old man, pettishly. “ It’s 
the very devil, sir! That fellow Sontag will probe the whole busi- 
ness to the bottom.” 

“ They can’t get any proof that we had anything to do with— the 
— hem—” 

“ No, they may not be able to do that, but is it not bad enough to 
stand in the dock on a charge ot forgery, Charles Pollard?” the old 
man almost shouted, while the perspiration started from his brow and 
glistened on his pale lace. “*1 tell you we’re in a trap, sir — in a 
devil ot a mess — and 1 think the sooner we can get a few thou- 
sands together and get out of this the better. Ah! 1 believe my 
old grandmother was right after all. She was always repeating 
that old saw, ‘ Be sure your sin will find you out.’ ” 

“ Bah! my dear uncle,” said Charles Pollard, thoroughly alarmed 
by the evident break-down of this strong man’s nerve and spirit. 

“ That is only true of the weak operators. Look at all the men we 
know who are at the top of the tree in the City! Do you suppose 
they all got there by a strict adherence to the Ten Commandments? 
That’s a proverb out ot date— never was true, 1 believe— certainly 
ain’t in these days. Koos avong chongjay toot seta! It’s not quite 
so bad as all that yet. Let us consider what we really have to 
meet, and try to find out our exact position. Lord Selby is not go- 
ing to risk letting the cat out of the bag in order to save the reputa- 
tion of a deceased agent. That was all moonshine — his threat to 
otter a revvard for the discovery ot Barton’s thingummies, you 
know. Suppose he does? AY hat odds? VYe can always double 
theii bids. No one suspects us ot that. As to the shares, until we 
know positively that young Bari on is possessed of that information, 
it would be madness for us lo act upon the supposition that he is. 


A WEEK OF PASSIOE". 


138 

Then the earl is in our hands. He can not prove — unless Barton 
has the receipt— tliat those documents ever came irrto our posses- 
sion. Well, that is the second thing to find out, we must see young 
Barton, on pretense ot helping him to solve the problem of his 
father’s fate. And then— but nol-look here, egad!”— he snapped 
his fingers — ‘‘ wliy didn’t we think of it before? Tlie earl objected 
to the advertisement! Well, withdraw the advertisement! Be- 
produce^he papers— old Barton, you remember, inspected them on 
Wednesday. Say we were under the impression he took them 
away, and that we have found them lying among a mass of docu- 
ments on our table — overlooked, but happily safe!- We thought 
that, in the absence of the documents, we should be able to squeeze 
the earl. The earl won’t squeeze. Reproduce the papers and the 
bonds—” 

‘‘ And what about the share certificate?” said Mr. Joseph Pollard, 
<lryly. 

“ We must run the risk of that. What additional harm is done 
if they know already? If they don’t know, we’re all right. The 
bold game is the only one for us now!” 

” Where are the papers? Suppose the earl comes here to-day — 
he will want to see them— we couldn’t refuse.” 

” By Jove! How unlucky! They are down in the wine-cellar at 
Stevenham. What’s the time? There’s an express at 10.30. 1 can 

just catch it. 1 shall be there at 11.37. Telegraph to Tom to meet 
me at the station with a trap — with Samson— he goes like the wind. 
1 can catch the up express at 12.20, and be here before 2.00. Look 
here. You keep out of the way. Go down to the Westminster 
Hotel to that arbitration, and Weperdoo till after lunch. Just take a 
look at those letters before you go, and send a note at once to the 
police withdrawing the advertisement. I’m ofi!” 

And the younger partner went oft like a roc set. 


CHAPTER Xlll. 

A VISIT. — MR. SONTAG’S THEORIES ON SOCIALISM AND CRIME. 

Weary as he was, and worn out by excitement, grief, and want 
of rest, George Barton found it impossible, when he had left the 
earl, to quiet the activity of his brain, which continued to work 
witn the restive and feverish monotony ot a telegraphic instrument, 
transmitting thoughts equally lapid and various. He had seen and 
spoken with Lady Blanche. His heart was thrilled with the elec- 
tric influences of her look, her voice, her touch. Amid the somber 
terrors that environed his soul, this solitary deacon gleamed fair 
and luminous far, far oft, but still flashing some faint lays ot hope. 
Again and again his thoughts turned to her, and his memory re- 
called, with minute fondness, every incident, every glance, every 
movement, every gefsture, the expression, the tone, the accent of 
her voice during those two brief but precious interviews. The 
gloomy realities of life were forgotten while he lost himself in these 
trances of sentiment. But when he turned to those realities, re- 
viewing the grave events of the day, pondering on his father’s fate, 
or considering his own situation, the darkness only seemed to grow 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


139 


more and more profound and impenetrable. lie was a youn^ man, 
but one of extraordinary power and resolve; still be vainly strove to 
shake off the dismal influences which closed in upon his soul with 
dense and suffocating effect, shutting out every prospect of happi- 
ness. iSo dreadful did the darkness appear all round the mental 
horizon that he would fain have shut his eyes to it and ceased to 
think at all. But that was not possible. Like the anxious mariner 
he felt obliged to strain every sense in order to discover some way 
out of the horrible obscurity by which he was surrounded. II is 
interview with the Earl of Selby, while it showed him more clearly 
the position of the rocks and shoals among which he was navigating, 
only served to involve him in thicker clouds of doubt and embar- 
rassment. The painful dilemma to which he had hitherto en- 
deavored to shut his eyes was now sharply defined. To vindicate tho 
memory of his father, as he was determined to do, was to ruin the 
earl, and strike a blow at Lady Blanciie’s happiness and peace of 
mind — the maiden whom he hopelessly, but, as he knew by the 
pangs and pleasures of his heart, madly loved. There seemed to be 
no middle way, and each of the devious courses seemed to end in 
darkness and sorrow. How could he, he asked himself, sacrifice 
his father’s memory to insuring his own happiness, were that even 
open to him? And with all the illusory hopes love whispers or en- 
genders his reason warned him that was out of the question. The 
satisfaction of his desires could not be attained by treason to the 
supreme commands of duty. Had he been a religious man. and 
therefore a casuist, it would have been whispered to his soul that 
mercy is better than judgment; and he might have found an excuse 
lor avoiding the discharge of an unpleasant duty by a sacrifice of 
truth, of justice, and his father’s honor. But he w'as too well 
grounded in the pure, clear, simple ethics of nature to be led astray 
by old-fashioned scholastic sophistry of that kind. 

Then if he turned, and simply glancing along the other course, 
caught a glimpse of the dread certainties to which it conducted— the 
innocent suffering with the guilty— the beloved one sinking to the 
earth under an inmierable burden of shame and sorrow — can any one 
wonder that he shuddered, averted his eyes, and shrunk from the pros- 
pect opened up before him? A few hours since he had seen her in all 
her queenly beauty, proud, but tender and sympathetic —and that to 
)iim! — unconscious of the heavy clouds which w'ere hanging over 
her father’s head, that lofty, unstricken head, clouds charged with 
the flames and bolts of justice; and there, by a strange fatality, he 
to whom she had spoken words of comfort and kindness held it in 
his power, and deemed it to be his duty, to do an act which would 
make those clouds discharge their ruin upon those she loved. 

“ Oh,” he cried out aloud, as he jiaced his room with uncertain 
steps, ‘‘ it is a horrible dilemma. I think 1 shall go mad! ' 

And a horrible dilemma it was. The ghastly paleness of his face, 
the hollow sinking of his dark eyes in their sockets, and the nervous 
contraction of his hands, seemed to verify his fear. 

Morning had almost dawned (for him as for her, each keeping a 
late and troubled vigil) before he calmed down, and overcome by 
physical weakness, threw himself, dressed as he was, on his bed. 

He was aroused from an uneasy slumber by a loud knocking at 


140 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


Ins door. He glanced at liis walcli. It was nearly ten o’clock. 
His laundress usually came at eight, and he was vexed to think that 
she must have knocked in vain and been obliged to go away. How- 
ever, concluding that she had returned in the hope of rousing him, 
he opened the door, his hair and dress in disorder, his eyes blood- 
shot and haggard. 

Lord Charles Layton was standing outside with the laundress. 
Both their faces showed considerable anxiety. 

“ Why, good gracious. Barton,” cried the young lord, seizing his 
hand and wringing it with tremendous energy, ” 1 ne^er was more 
glad to see you in my life, though you never looked worse! This 
good woman here and 1 have been knocking for more than ten 
minutes. We were sure that something had happened to you, and 
were just going to send for a porter to break in your door. You 
are ill, Barton; your hand is quite hot.” 

” It is nothing,” said Barton. ” 1 did not get to bed till five 
o’clock, and you see 1 lay down just as I was. Y’ou know how 
troubled 1 am.” 

‘‘ Yes,” said Lord Charles, as he put his arm through his friend’s, 
and entered his sitting-room. ”1 know it, George; and 1 should 
have been here before but for my father’s orders, given for some 
mysterious reason which he has not condescended to explain. This 
morning he told me he had seen you last night, and that the em- 
bargo was removed; and Blanche, at the Queen’s ball, gave me such 
a bad account of you that 1 had made up my mind to see you the 
first thing this morning if the earl cut me off with a shilling, for 1 
think his conduct to you has been pertectl}' ridiculous and inde- 
fensible.” 

“ My dear fellow, don’t think so. There w^as a misunderstand- 
ing, but it has all been explained. Ko one could have been more 
sorry about it than your father.” 

” I will do him the justice to say that he told me so very frankly 
this morning, and seemed to be very sincere in his repentance. 1 
tell you I never saw my venerable parent so moved. But what in 
the name of all the mysteries — of Isis, of the Cabiri, of Eleusis, and 
the mystic numbers of Pythagoras — is the matter? What does it all 
mean? The earl tells me he has no doubt that your poor father 
has been the victim of an infamous crime. 1 never heard of such a 
thing! What enemies could he have had? No one ever spoke a 
word of evil of George Barton! Then there’s the earl — mysterious 
as a ghost — pale — worried — upset; a sort of Hamlet or Macbeth. 
I’m told you were with him till nearly one o’clock this morning. 
l<lo wonder 1 find you looking haggard and feverish. It is enough 
to turn your head.” 

” Layton, if you only knew all you wmuld wmnder my head was 
not turned. But please don’t ask me any questions. 1 can tell you 
nothing— nothing whatever. My poor father is dead beyond doubt; 
be is the victim of a great crime. Your father and 1 are agreed in 
fixing our suspicions upon certain persons; at present they are only 
suspicions; we have not sufficient evidence to justify our mentioning 
their names even to you.” 

The face of Lord Gharles showed some disappointment. 

‘‘ Why, George,” he said, ” look here, you know, I came here to 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


141 


offer you niy services. It is a great mistake, let me tell you, to 
shut yourself up in this way and nurse your troubles in secret. 
What is the good of a friend if you don’t use him? 1 tell you, you 
must let me help you. Open your heart freely to me, my dear 
fellow; am 1 not turn antiqiiissimus non solum amicus 'cerum etiam 
amator? Tou can trust me as it I were your own brother.” 

The moisture which sprung into the young man’s eyes as he spoke 
testified to the sincerity of his words. George Baiton, agitated by 
a sense, of the character of that secret which the young lonl was 
urging him, in the sincerity of his friendship to permit him to 
share, and deeply moved by the brotherly frankness of the appeal, 
still shook his head. He could not trust himself to speak. 

” Why, look here,” continued Lord Charles, fumbling about in 
his pockets, and at length extracting from that of his waisfeoat, 
along with some crumpled bank-notes and gold, a tiny piece of 
paper, a slip hastily torn oft the fly-leat ol some note of invitation, 
“ Blanche is the most sensible girl 1 ever met — no end of a head. 1 
would sooner take her advice than that of any man 1 know; and 
besides, she has a very high opinion of you, let me tell you; says 
you’ll be a very disiinguislied man; and she spoke about you last 
night with real anxiety. What the deuce is the matter? Are you 
in pain?” 

” I— 1 hau a kind of spasm here— here in my heart.” 

” Well, I’ll tell you what, George, my boy, this won’t do, you 
know. You’ll get knocked up, you know ; and— and, if you don’t look 
out you’ll be seriously ill. 1 shall go straight from here to Sir 
Alfred Marks and tell him to call and see you— yes, yes. By Jove! 
you know, it’s time somebody came and took you in hand. You 
are simply killing yourself with worry and anxiety, shutting up 
your griefs in this way, within your own breast. No wonder you 
have spasms in your heart! Look here, George, 1 tell you I’m not 
going to stand by and let this go on.” 

And the young lord rose and^^took a few distracted steps about the 
room, while he flourished the. tiny bit of paper in iiis Angers. He 
wanted to hide the emotion which was swelling his heart. 

“ Don’t!” cried George Barton, in a voice choked with anguish. 

1 assure you 1 am not ill; 1 am only troubled and excited.' 1 — 1 
will tell you all I ought to tell, Layton, but don’t press me, my 
dear fellow. It is enough to see you, to know that you sympathize 
with me. 1 feel better now. What were you going to say about 
Lady Blanche?” 

‘‘"oil! ah! — yes — I forgot— well, look here. 1 w^as saying Blanche 
spoke so anxiously about you last night that, after the earl had given 
me a hint at breakfast to come and see you, 1 sent a message up to 
her room just to say I was coming here. I knew she would like to 
know it, and she sent me down this little slip. She says— now listen 
to this— though she is a girl, she talks like a book: 

“ ‘ So glad you are going; poor fellow, he needs a strong and able 
friend ' (that’s her gas, you know). ‘ Get him to open bis heart to 
you; nothing relieves sorrow or trouble so much as sharing it with 
a really sympathetic friend. He can and will trust you. , My 
warmest sympathy and good wishes, Blanche.’ 


142 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


“There,” continued the young lord, crumpling up the slip of 
paper, and letting it drop upon the floor, from which George Barton 
could hardly refrain from instantly snatching it up. “ That’s what 
Blanche says— written like a female Seneca. 1 couldn’t have ex- 
pressed it half so well, 1 tell you. Now is it not common sense? 
And can you not trust me? And may 1 not help you? Come, 
George, 1 like you too much to leave you to tight out all this terrible 
busines.s alonef and, it necessary, we’ll get her to help us on the sly. 
1 call her the Queen of Sheba, you know, because the Queen of 
Sheba was, I believe, the only woman who ever managed td stump 
Solomon. Egad, he wouldn’t have had any chance with the women 
if he had lived in these days of Girton and university exams., 
though!” 

This latter reflection, which seems out of place in so serious a 
moment, was rather a thought uttered aloud than a remark ad- 
dressed to the hearer; but Lord Charles was younger than Barton, 
and his humor, which had some of the cynical flavor of the earl’s, 
was as yet not perfectly under his control. Barton did not notice the 
incongruity. Lord Charles’s good-will was so genuine and cordial, 
his tone and manner so full of sympathy, that these thoughtless in- 
terpolations did not destroy the eflect of his more serious words, 
which besides had a terribly special and esoteric force for poor 
George. In George Barton’s heart just then there had suddenly 
gushed out a bright, pure fountain of gladness. He kept his eyes 
on that precious morsel on the floor, over and around which the 
young lord’s varnished shoes were dancing as carelessly as if it were 
a spoiled cigarette-paper, while George was burning to press it on 
his heart. He said, 

“ yit down, Layton— over here, please. Now let me talk to you 
frankly. 1 can not thank you for this visit, and your kind words, 
and your sister’s message, simply because my heart is too full to 
allow me to express myself. You must not measure the depth of 
my appreciation of this act of friendship by the extent of my con- 
fidences. It is simply infinite. 1 tell you solemnly, and wish you 
to tell Lady Blanche, that there are grave and insurmountable rea- 
sons why i should not just now take your advice — and hers— and 
share the troubles and the fearful anxieties which weigh me down 
with the two most generous and sympathizing hearts that exist 
within the circle of my acquaintance. The same good feeling 
which brought you here will lead you to accept this from me. 
What 1 may tell you 1 will, and it will be a relief to me to have 
your sympathy. Believe me, that 1 know of nothing — unless it 
had been the return of my poor dear father alive — nothing that could 
possibly have given me so much comfort and solace as this visit.” 

The two young men exchanged a hearty xiressure of the hand, and 
remained silent for a minute. Then George Barton related to his 
friend so much of the previous circumstances as was known to the 
police, and as bore simply on the question of the identity of the in- 
dividual who had died in Regent Circus with George Barton the 
elder. He did not hesitate to tell Lord Charles that his identity 
having been established, he should consider it placed beyond doubt 
that his father had been murdered, and should use every effort to 
unearth the authors of the crime. But while these brave word& 


A WEEK OF PASSION". 


143 


were on his tongue his voice trembled and his heart sunk vrithiu 
him. He had said them deliberately. He wished to keep his reso- 
lution firm, to force himself to adhere to the predetermined line of 
action, to strengthen his resolve by enunciating it to one of those— 
who would convey it to another — who must be the deepest sufferers 
by tbe execution of that resolve. But, as he was speaking, his eye 
glanced, with an irresistible attraction, to the slip ot paper which 
lay upon the floor. He turned pale, and a shiver went through his 
frame. 

“ Stay," said the other, kindly. “ These confldences are giving 
you pain. They open the vrounds afresh. It is a terrible business, 
and full of mystery. 1 am here when you want me— at any hour — 
for any duty. Don’t hesitate to send for me. Nay, 1 sliall come 
here every day to look after you, and see that you take care of your- 
self. You want all your strength tor this work. 1 must talk to the 
earl, too, and see that he does not shirk any responsibility. Blanche 
and 1 will keep him up to the scratch— I’ll answer for it!” 

And with these words, which were like arrows in Barton’s heart, 
so unconscious were they in their innocent, ignorant good-will, Lord 
Charles took his leave. 

When the door had shut behind his visitor George Barton flew to 
the spot where the precious scrap of paper was lying, on which Lady 
Blanche’s pencil had hastily traced her kindly lines. There was her 
bold, strong handvrriting — there were the words which would for- 
ever rest engraved upon his memory. He pressed them to his lips, 
and clasped them to his heart, not with the ecstasy of delighted 
love, but with the terrible joy of a martyr who presses the cross 
upon a bosom that has been pierced by a sword. 

******* 

George Barton’s reflections, which had grown somber and more 
poignant after those few moments ot painful bliss, were disturbed 
by his laundress bringing him in the morning letters, forgotten up 
to this moment in the letter-box. One was a sorrowful note from 
bis mother, who announced her intention of coming to town by an 
early morning train, which would ariive at two o’clock, and begging 
him to secure rooms tor her at the Salisbury Hotel, near the Temple. 
The other was a line from Mr. Sontag, requesting him to call in 
Scotland Yard before noon. There was little time to spare. He 
dressed hastily, and in half an hour entered the private office of the 
chief of the Detective Department. There were some evidences of 
excitement in the room, and on the usually quiet face of the prin- 
cipal occupant. A detective in plain clothes, a secretary, and an 
ordinary sergeant of the blue-bottle species were engaged in animated 
conversation, all standing. Mr. Sontag held in his hand the end ot 
a speaking-tube which he had just taken from his ear. 

‘‘Ah! Mr. Barton,” he said, politely. “Glad to see you, sir. 
You have come in just at the right moment. Look here— do you 
recognize that?” 

He took up a gold watch which was lying on the table and handed 
It to the young man. When the latter had glanced at it he nearly 
let il fall from his hand, so extraordinary w’as the emotion of sur- 
prise which the sight of it produced. 


144 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK". 


“ IVliy,” he gasped, " this is my tather’s watch— the very oue^ie 
took to Lund’s to be repaired!” / 

Hardly trusting his eyes, he touched the spring. On the ipside 
of the gold hunting-case the words “George Barton,” tvhich had 
once been engraved there, were roughly effaced; but part of the 
“ G ” and the latter half of the “ n ” could be distinguished. He 
looked at the chief detective in amazement. Were they all w’rong, 
then? Was it not liis father after all who had perished in Regent 
Circus? Mr. Sontag by a sign dismissed the officials who were with 
him, and when the room was cleared, said, 

“ You have no doubts, Mr. Barton?” 

“ None whatever.” 

“ Remember, you had no doubt about this IMr. Sontag poinled 
with his finger to the large bottle, with the white object suspended 
in spirit, which stood upon a shelf along with other interesting 
articles. 

“ This is my father’s watch.” 

“ Is that your father’s hand?” 

George Barton shuddered, put his own hand to his head, and 
stared at the inquirer in doubt and perplexity. Suddenly a light 
flashed in his eyes. 

“ Where was this found? In Regent Circus.” 

He answered the question for himself, as if the response were a 
matter of certainty. 

“No.” 

With the natural, or shall we rather say the professional tendency 
of a detective to mystification, Mr. Sontag was unconscious of ihe 
pain that he was inflicting wdiile he postponed the solution of tho 
singular puzzle he had propounded to the young man. George 
Barton, who was quick, suddenly became conscious of this as he 
looked at the expression, half-amused, half-provoking, on the face 
of the distinguished policeman. 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Sontag,” he said, with dignity, “ but to me this 
is not a subject of frivolous curiosity. It concerns the fate of my 
father.” 

The detective took the rebuke in good part. 

“1 beg your pardon, Mr. Barton,” he said. “The. case is so 
extra — ordinary— that 1 wished to see how the matter would strike 
you without explanation. This watch was pawned in the Bow 
Road on Friday evening last.” 

“Good Jieavens!” 

“ 1 sent again to Lund’s this morning. They inspected this 
watch. There is no doubt that they handed it to your father, 
wrapped up in a small box, on Thursday afternoon, at a quarter past 
four. How did it get into the East End of London on Fiiday at 
half-past eight in the evening?” 

George Barton shook his head, his ideas were in a thorouah state 
of confusion. He said, however, 

“ Do you know’^ who the individual was that pawned it?” 

“We have his description — ‘A respectably-dressed man— height 
judged about five feet six, blue eyes, short, fiatlish nose, light 
yellow whiskers, beard and mustache streaked with gray. Wore a 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 145 

black, soft felt liat. Gave the name of Smith.’ ” Mr. Sontag read 
from a paper which lay on his table. 

“ Clearly not my father.” 

‘‘ I think so. Curiously enough the description, except as to the 
whiskers, which ot course may have been false, corresponds with 
that of a man we are after with reference to another crime, which 
is almost as great a mystery as this— the disappearance of a wealthy 
Jew, who had on his person at the time a packet of diamonds; but 
1 fear it is a mere coincidence. That man, no doubt, we shall have 
in a few’ days.” 

The reader knows how greatly Mr. Sontag’s confidence was mis- 
placed. 

Young Barton had recovered his self-possession, and his mind at 
once fixed itself on the problem to be solved He said: 

” The question then is. Is the pawning of this watch in the East 
End consistent with the theory that the victim of the catastrophe in 
the Circus was my father?” 

” Exactly.” 

‘‘ What are the possible hypotheses?” continued the young man. 
” 1st. My fatlier may have dropped the parcel before he reached 
the Circus. That is hardly probable. 2d. His pocket may liave 
been picked in going up Regent Street. That is not impossible, 
though he was always on the alert in going about London. 3d. 
This w’atch — like the hand— may have survived the explosion, and 
being packed in w’ool, may have been thrown to a great distance, 
picked up intact, and appropriated. That is just within the bounds 
of possibilit}’-, when w’e remember that in greater explosions even 
human beings have been blown a considerable distance and yet have 
fallen unhurt. 1 see no other alternative, and they are all unsatis- 
factory in the extreme.” 

” There is one other, nevertheless,” said Mr. Sontag, proud to 
show his superior astuteness. “Your theory is that your father 
was the victim of a conspiracy. You say, though you have not yet 
been good enough to inform me of the grounds of your suspicion, 
that certain persons were interesting in putting him out of the way. 
I'uey must be very rich persons, capable of commanding the as- 
sistance of the ablest of those secret criminal organizations wdiich 
are alw’ays existing in the great Continental cities, some of which 
conceal vulgar criminal objects under the disguise of political asso- 
ciations, others of bogus international financial or commercial com- 
panies, wherein we sometimes find men ot exceptional intellect and 
education engaged. Many of these men are really political agitators 
as well. They^iave so befogged themselves with socialist ical ideas 
that they have actually succeeded in persuading themselves there is 
no difference between meum and tuum. A man when he is per- 
suaded of that is, so tar as all human law is concerned, already a 
criminal in principle. Some go no further; but it is not w’onderful 
if many do not atop there, but become criminals in practice. The 
Iiish agitator, for instance, in the House of Commons, says that the 
land wiiich belongs to the Irish landlords is that ot the Irish 
tenants. The Irish agitator in Ireland really believes this doctrine, 
and falls back on it to justify shooting the landlord. 1 am not a 
politician, but 1 simply take note ot a fact which, as a policeman, 


146 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


1 am bound to note, and which is to me an alarming one, and it is 
this: that the socialistic ideas now allowed to be freely propagated 
in all free countries, and which are being propagated in spite of 
authority in others, are developing and producing a large number 
of criminals, not of the ordinary kind— low, vulgar, uneducated 
villains — but men of intelligence and resources.” 

‘‘ lou really believe that?” said Barton. 

” Yes,” said Mr. Sontag. “ Your disappointed Socialist takes it 
into his head that he can’t aftord to wait for the millennium. The 
general distribution of property is too far off. He justiBes himself, 
on principles to which too many respectable competitors for political 
power give a kind of patronage, in taking for himself that which is 
next to hand. This very German, Dr. Schultz, whom we are now 
seeking, is a distinguished chemist, a professed Anarchist, who tried 
to kill the Emperor of Germany, and who has slipped ovei from 
political to private murders. He is mixed up with all the secret 
societies, and, I doubt not, with the most dangerous clubs of Lon- 
don ana Continental criminals. We have never been able to fix 
him with a crime, though he is suspected of complicity in at 
least six murders, or attempts to murder. He uses these secret 
organizations for his private purposes. W e have been looking for him 
for six weeks in every nook and corner of London. We can not 
lay hands on him. Yet X do not doubt there are scores of men in 
London w^ho know where he is at this moment.” 

George Barton was astonished at the intelligence displayed by Mr. 
Sontag, but he wondered what all this was coming to — what it had 
to do wdth the fourth theory. Mr. Sontag probably read a little im- 
patience in the young man’s face, for he said, 

” But 1 must not take up your time with my speculations. You 
will see, however, that they are not without their bearing on what 
follows. Now, if you are light in your supposition that very rich 
and powerful people were interested in putting your father out of 
the way — ” 

‘‘ Stay!” interrupted George Barton, who began to be alarmed at 
the direction in which IVIr. Sontag’s insinuations were evidently 
pointing. ‘‘ 1 don’t think 1 ever used the terms you impute to me. 
1 do think that people who control large resources may have had — 1 
use the potential— an interest in silencing my father. 1 ceitainly 
did not use the wmrd powerful; with whatever meaning jmu may 
employ it, the word and the idea are not mine. Neither, I believe, 
have I ever led you to imagine that I had more than a suspicion, or 
that 1 had any information which would reasonably justify it.” 

The unfortunate young man shrunk from encouraging even a 
suspicion in the mind of this astute inquisitor which might put him 
on the scent of the perilous facts known to himself. The fatal time 
would come when he must speak the fatal words — words which 
would destroy his happiness forever, but he wanted to hold the 
cards in his own hands a little longer, to put off to the last moment 
the discharge of his terrible duty. 

Mr. Sontag, on his part, felt a good deal of disappointment. He 
had spoken as he did advisedly, hoping to entrap the young man, 
who he was persuaded knew more than he had yet disclosed, into a 
tacit confirmation of his own theories. 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


147 

“ Very well, sir,” he said, dryly. ” I am content to suppose that 
the principals in tlie iniaginary plot are wealthy enough lo be able 
to pay handsomely for the worK to be done. These people, who- 
ever they are, would easily be able to command the services of such 
men and such an organization as 1 have sketched to 3 ^ 11 . Conse- 
quently, every movement of your lather would be watched. Tiiere 
may have been half a dozen accomplices on his track that day. 
Our theory is that the}' were desirous to attach to or place upon his 
person a dangerous explosive. They would see him enter Lund’s 
shop. One of them would follow him in. There is a curious fact, 
which 1 have ascertained and hitherto concealed from you. A 
man— answering very close!}'’ to the description adven by the pawn- 
broker of the person who pawned this watch— was in the shop at 
the time when Mr. Barton too'^ it away. This person bought a sil- 
ver bracelet, which was handed to him wrapped up in a similar 
parcel to the one which was given to your father. Suppose he fol- 
lowed your father, and made some pretext for exchanging parcels! 
Suppose that the parcel your father took in exchange was an in- 
fernal machine wrapped up in the paper obtained from Lund’s! 
Suppose that he was told they had discovered at Lund’s that the 
wrong parcel had been handed to him, and having no cause to sus- 
pect any trick, took it and walked away with it in his pocket! Is 
not that also a hypothesis not absolutely beyond the limits of proba- 
bility, and accounting at once tor tne accident to your father, and 
the existence of this watch in a sate and sound condition?” 

George Barton was startled by the ingenuity of this theory, which, 
as the reader already Knows, was a remarkable guess at the facts as 
they had occurred; for the lips wliich would have confirmed it 
triumphantly to the philosophic detective had been forever silenced, 
and it was, so far as Mr. Sontag was concerned, an instance of 
purely constructed hypothesis. Vet it seemed incredible, involving 
as it did so many suppositions that would scarcely bear the test of 
consideration. So much is truth really stranger than fiction. 

” Now,” said Mr. Sontag, ” 1 think you will be disposed to ad- 
mit that my hypothesis is the only one consistent with the theory 
that the victim was your father— the only one that will account 
naturally for the presence on the person of a man of his character 
and habits of a powerful explosive — the only one that explains the 
finding of this watch in the Bow Boad.” 

” Stay!” cried George Barton, through whose mind a sudden rec- 
olletion had flashed; ‘‘ 1 am losing the use of my faculties. There is 
now no doubt that my father was the victim. Have you not been 
told— has the Lari of Selby not informed you— that young Lord 
Tilbury has recovered consciousness, and states that he saw my 
father in front of his horse a moment before the accident?” 

” No. How did you learn this?” 

‘‘ Lord Selby told me so himself late last night. Now 1 think 
of it, he has hardly had time to communicate it to you.” 

“ Lord Selby told you this? ’ said Mr. Sontag, keenly examining 
the face of the young man, while his own manifested a curious 
mixture of astonishment, chagrin, and suspicion. ‘‘1 understood 
that Lord Selby entertained no doubt that his agent, Mr. Barton, 
had disappeared with a large amount of valuable property. It 


148 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


your father’s identity with the victim of the crime in the Circus is 
now placed beyond doubt, what has become of the papers it was 
alleged that he had abstracted?” 

George Barton tried to conceal the dreadful embarrassment into 
which this question threw him, for Mr. Sontug was, as they say in 
the children’s game of hide-and-seek, getting dangerously hot; but 
at this moment, fortunately for the young man’s candor, a card was 
brought in for Mr. Sontag, who, glancing at it, said, 

“ Why, here is the Earl of Selby, probably come to announce this 
very fact.” (To the attendant.) ” Ask the earl to be good enough 
to ualk in.” 

In a moment the peer entered, pale and a little haggard, but self- 
possessed. He bowed to Mr. Sontag, and gave George Barton a 
quiet pressure of the hand as he said, 

“ 1 see. Barton, you are here before me. Mr. Sontag, 1 came to 
give you some very important intelligence which reached me yes- 
terday evening. 1 suppose my young friend here has told you.” 

Mr. Sontag had glanced sharply from the earl to young Barton, 
and from him again to the earl, as they met. He was puzzled be- 
yond measure at the apparent cordiality of the relations between 
the man who had accused the missing steward of a criminal eva- 
sion, and the son of the person thus accused. He said, with a cer- 
tain emphasis in his tone, 

” My lord, Mr. Barton has just given me the intelligence, which 
of course disposes of the charge your solicitors have made here 
against your late steward, and, by the way, have also published in 
the newspapers.” 

“ 1 am happy to say it does,’' replied the earl, with quiet frank- 
ness “ And that, Mr. Sontag, is another object of my coming here 
to-day. 1 wish that charge to be withdrawn. It was not made 
with any strong conviction on my part, and 1 have expressed my 
deep sorrow that it ever ehould have been made to Mr. Barton’s son, 
who is my godson. It was a charge brought with regrettable 
thoughtlessness and want of judgment.” 

George Barton stood paralyzed between his appreciation of this 
handsome and manly retractation, and his terror at the perilous 
disclosure which the earl had made to the astute Chief of the De- 
tective Department. It had been arranged tlie night before that 
they were to act in concert, but the earl had resolved that at any risk 
he would discharge his conscience to this extent. 

“And what, then,” inquired Mr. Sontag, with some vivacity, 
“ is your lordship’s theory of the cause of this extraordinary — acci- 
dent to Mr. Barton?” 

“ That, again,” replied the earl, quickly, “ is precisely the ques- 
tion, Mr. Sontag, which 1 have come here to ask your department to 
assist me to solve. 1 intended to have seen the chief commissioner. 
He is absent, and 1 was referred to you. 1 wish you to offer in my 
name a reward of £2,000 for the discovery of the murderers of 
George Barton.” 

The detective-in-chief started, and screwed up his eyes in order to 
get a better look at the earl. George Barton was visibly uneasy. 
The strings were getting out bf his hand. 

“My lord— may 1 venture to ask your lordship,” said Mr. Son- 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


149 


tag, putting on an appearance of delicate hesitation wliicli he did 
not feel, tor his question was me-ant to go to the bottom of things, 
“ whether — you have— a — consulted your solicitors before you took 
this important step?” 

The earl drew himself up, 

” 1 don’t quite see the relevancy of that question at the moment. 
I have consulted my heart, Mr, Sontag. Mr. Barton, senior, was 
my intimate friend and counselor for twenty-tive years. I am deter- 
mined at any cost to solve the m^’^stery of his fate, the more decided- 
ly that 1 was a party to doing a temporary injustice to his mmory.” 

Mr. (Sontag bowed. 

” Of course your lordship’s wishes shall be carried out, but he 
glanced at the earl and George Barton — ” we ought to be frankly 
informed of everything you, and Mr. Barton’s son, and your solic- 
itors know which would give a clew to the persons who may have 
had a motive for committing such a crime.” 

” That matter,’' replied the earl, ” is earnestly engaging the at- 
tention of Mr. Barton here and myself. 1 admit it puzzles us. It 
would be premature at this moment, and even unjust, to say any 
more. ’ ’ 

Had the earl been a common person, Mr. Sontag would have told 
him here that, if he consulted the Detective Department of the po- 
lice to assist in unraveling a crime, or whether he consulted it or 
not, if he withheld, even for an hour, information which would tend 
to throw light upon the perpetrators, he was incurring a serious risk; 
for the criminals might escape while he was deciding whether his 
suspicions were justifiable. But he was a peer of the realm and a 
magistrate, and the chief thought that he had better hold his tongue. 

The astute chief was already beginning to get a very dangerous 
insight into the state of affairs. Here was the earl acting with 
young Barton. "Was that sincere? He was acting also, he felt sure, 
tliough the earl had not admitted it, either without consulting, or in 
direct disagreement with, Pollard & Pollard. What did that mean? 
Or was that, too, a ruse? 

There was something more running through the detective’s mind, 
which neither of his visitors was aware of. The sergeant who had 
been in the room when young Barton entered was Sergeant Gos- 
lorth, of the East-end division, sent up by the sub-chief of that dis- 
trict to make a startling report. McLaren— wnom Sontag had told 
oft to account for Mr. Charles Pollard’s movements on the previous 
night in substitution for Garbett, whom we have seen under the 
alms of Dillon, had claimed the assistance of X 832 the night be- 
fore to obtain a disguise, with the intention of following a supposed 
mariner down Dutchman’s Alley and into the public-house known 
as the Dutch Lugger. X 332 having vvaited till midnight, and hav- 
ing neither heard nor seen anything of McLaren, had concluded (hat 
the latter had slipped off after his man in some other direction. Mc- 
Laren had not turned up. Search being ordered, a body of police 
overhauled the Dutch Lugger and neighborhood without finding a 
trace of McLaren, though the frowzy bar-maid remembered dis- 
tinctly the strange sailor, answering to the description given, who 
was very drunk, lind who went away by the private door without 
paying for his drink. 


150 


A WEEK OF PASSIOJSr. 


Did any other persons go out with him or before him? 

She did not know. She did not know whether any other persons 
liad been with or near the detective. She minded her own business, 
she did. There was no one now attainable who could describe the 
disguise assumed by Mr. Charles Pollard; for that it was Mr. 
Charles Pollard whom the detective was following Mr. Sontag had 
not a shadow of doubt— he knew his man — though the unfortunate 
fellow, with the professional secrecy of a detective, had not dis- 
closed to X 332 the name of the person he was watching. Yet Mr. 
Sontag had received a report that Mr. Charles Pollard had entered his 
office at the usual hour of half-past nine, bright and fresh as ever. 
TSlay, by a little stratagem, Garbett h‘ad already discovered that Mr, 
Charles Pollard had not dined at home the night before, and how 
he was dressed when he returned. He was making his report when 
Barton entered Mr. Sontag’s room, and this was how he had done it. 

He rang the bell of No. 280 Queen’s Gate, and tendered an um- 
brella to the servant. 

“ 1 think this umbrella belongs to a gentleman who got out of a 
hansom here last evening. 1 took the hansom myself afterward, 
and only noticed it as 1 was getting out.” 

” It don’t look like Mr, Pollard’s, sir. What time, please?” 

‘‘ Half-past eight,” said Mr. Garbett, at a venture. “ It was day- 
light. Pm pretty sure he came in here. It may be a friend’s um- 
brella.” 

“ You’re mistaken, sir. No gentleman called here last night. 
Mrs. Pollard was at the opera, and Mr. Pollard was dining at his 
club.” 

“ Oh, it may have been later. He was dressed in a black frock- 
coat. I’m quite sure of the house.” 

“ Why, sir.” replied the servant, annoyed by the other’s persist- 
ence, “ Mr. Pollard didn’t come in till past twelve o’clock, and he 
was dressed in evening dress, with a light overcoat on his arm.” 

After making a feint of calling at other houses, Mr. Garbett re- 
turned to Scotland Y'ard, where there were lists of the members of 
every club in London. Mr. Charles Pollard was a member of the 
“ Thatched House Club.” It would soon be known whether he had 
dined there. 

The sergeant had reported another suspicious fact. In the next 
alley, leading to the river, to that of the public-house a small pool 
of blood was discovered, and drops of blood were traced to the 
water-side, where they ended, if McLaren had gone out by the 
back way from the Dutch Lugger, as he must have done, since he 
had not rejoined policeman X 332, these traces of blood, connected 
with the fact of his disappearance, excited the most lively apprehen- 
sions as to his fate. Drags Pad been set to wmrk in the river. A 
strong force of detectives and police were scouring the whole neigh- 
borhood of Wapping. 

Where was McLaren? what was Mr. Charles Pollard doing iu 
Wapping at that hour? how had he got there? and so on. All this 
was disturbing Mr. Sontag’s mind while he was conversing with 
his visitors. Mystery'- was being involved in mystery, and horror 
piled upon horror. The criminals he had to deal with would stand 
at nothing. They evidently liad unlimited ability and resources. 


A WEEK or PASSIOK. 


151 


He did not, however, give his visitors any hint of the new tragedy 
which had sent a thrill of consternation through Scotland Yard, and 
he had directed that the matter should be kept out of the journals. 

The appearance of the Earl ot Selby on the scene in a new char- 
acter, that of a friend ot old Mr. Barton acting with the son ot the 
late agent, and professing a lively anxiety to sift the mystery to the 
bottom, imported a troublesome confusion into Mr. Sontag’s theories. 
The solution which he had imagined involved the complicity ot no 
less a person than a peer of the realm. Now this very peer was act- 
ing like an innocent man, and independently of, if not in hostility 
to, his supposed accomplices. The Chief of the Detective Depart- 
ment saw that he must reconstruct his hypotheses while carefully 
keeping on his guard against a collusive attempt to deceive him and 
George Barton, whose sincerity was not to be questioned. This sud- 
den understanding between the earl and the young man was in itself 
very suspicious. It had taken place, too, immediately after the tarl 
had become cognizant of the tact that Lord Tilbury could verity the 
identity of the individual who perished in the Circus; and the peer 
had not communicated this fact directly to the police, but to George 
Barton. 

All these reflections, however, Mr. Sontag kept to himself. Only, 
as the earl took leave, he said, in an off-hand manner, 

“ Your lordship will probably see Messrs. Pollard & Pollard, and 
instruct them to withdraw the aflvertisment with regard to Mr. 
Barton?” 

The peer was just about to answer this insidious question, when 
his quick glance detected a certain cunning anxiety in Mr. Sontag’s 
eye, which led him to alter the character of his reply. 

“ They quite understand that. Mr. Sontag; good-morning.” 

Outside the door the earl slipped his hand through young Barton’s 
arm and led him to his coupe, which was standing in Parliament 
Street. 

“ To Grosvenor Place,” he said to the footman. 

When the door was closed upon his visitors, Mr. Sontag, with a 
curious smile upon his face, turned to his desk, and picking up a 
letter ran his eye over it. It tvas in these terms • 

“ {Confidential.) 

“pollard & POLLARD, 

“ 155 Lincoln’s Inn Fields, W. C. 

July 1, 188—. 

To the Chief Commissioner of Police, Scotland Yard, aS. TF..‘ 

“ Siij^ — Deferring to our communication to you of yesterday’s 
date, and to our advertisement ot same date, concerning" the disap- 
pearance of Mr. George Barton, solicitor, of Manor Calham, Selby, 
Yorks, w’^e now have the honor to inform you that w e have only this 
day discovered that, to our deep regret, a serious error has been made 
in regard to the supposed loss of the deeds of title, bonds, etc., 
stated in that advertisement to be missing. Through an extraordi- 
nary oversight, these papers, although forming a parcel of consid- 
erable bulk, had been overlooked among a vast quantity of law 
papers lying in the private room ot our senior partner, and w^ere 


152 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


only detected this morning, in the course of a search for the docu- 
ments in another case. 

“ This, of course, disposes of the charge Mrhich we had, by direc- 
tion of the Earl of Sellw, brought against Mr. Barton, and renders, 
it unnecessar}’-, so far as the earl or we are concerned, to pursue any 
further inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mr. Barton, who, we trust, 
has simply withdrawn himself under the influence of some tem- 
porary aberration of intellect. 

“We have the honor to be, sir, jours faithfully, 

“ POLLAKD & POLLAED.” 

“Hum!” said Mr. Sonlag, musing, when he had finished the 
perusal of this epistle. “ What is the meaning of this? The earl 
evidentlj'did not know anything about this letter, and they evidently 
don’t know what he was doiner here just now. The two parties are 
playing at cross-purposes. 1 begin to think the earl is genuine; it 
so, Messrs. Pollard & Pollard, you are the gentlemen who demand 
my particular attention! This is very fishy, to say the least of it, 
and men of business who mislay important documents and accuse a 
brother professional of felony one day, and find the papers and 
witndraw the charge on the next, must not be surprised if they 
themselves become objects of suspicion. The secret of Barton’s 
murder is, 1 suspect, wrapped up in those papers, and 1 am resolved 
to know what they are.” 

Pie touched an electric bell, and a sharp, intelligent-looking mem- 
ber of the force appeared. 

“ Send Mr. Garbett here.” 

Garbett, alias Dillon, had a totally different manner when in the 
presence of his chief from that which characterized his moments of 
social expansion. He was stilt, precise, brief, and business-like. 
He had two exterior signs of the faculties which his profession is 
supposed to develop most — the faculties, namely, of seeing and 
hearing. His eyes were large and disagreeably prominent, his ears 
were simply phenomenal. IPis jaw— or rather muzzle, for it as- 
sumed that character — was exceedingly protuberant, and his lips 
were large and sensual. They moved over the j.aw with marvelous 
flexibility, seeming to indicate a large ])olentiality of that sort of 
eloquence which is common among a certain class of Dissenting 
preachers in Scotland and Ireland, Where such jaws abound, and 
where the large lips of so many weak enthusiasts are working to 
prove that they have been touched with a live-coal from off the 
altar. So little is the fine, subtle meaning of that vision of Isaiah 
understood, as indicating that it is only to one or two select spirits 
of each age that the special inspiration of genius is vouchsafed: that 
only to one or two in every age is given the right or the power to 
prophesy to their fellow-men. INIr. Garbett, however, happily had 
not misdirected his jaws to the purnose of feeble and bigoted con- 
ceit. He devoted them chiefly to a much more practical purpose, 
namely, the triiuration of agreeable comestibles. Indeed, he quite 
discountenanced the principles of Lavater, for there was not a closer 
or safer man in the service. His face, like an actor’s, was cleanly 
shaven, to facilitate the adoption of disguises— a fashion which ex- 
posed a vast area of blue black surface, deeply rutted here and there 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 


153 


vpith expressive valleys and riverine lines of wrinkle. He had a 
habit of holding the head in a stiff, listening position, which seemed 
to indicate that he heard better with the right ear than the left, 
although in truth they were both equallv sharp; and it was only a 
habit which had grown out of excessive self-consciousness, and 
sense of the importance of the role which, according to the cate- 
chism, Providence had assigned him in the comedy of life. This 
habit, by the way, he shared in common with many distinguished 
nien of letters and persons of “ culture.” In this position, with his 
hands crossed over the rim of his hat, which he held modestly in 
front of a promising paunch, he stood waiting for his chief to speak. 

“Garbeit,” said Mr. Sontag, “I am afraid McLaren has been 
nipped.” 

” Looks like it, sir.” 

Nothing had stirred except Mr. Garbett’s lips, but that is to say 
about one third of his face. Tiie large balls of his prominent eyes 
remained immovable, for, like a fly, Mr. Garbett could see before 
him or sideways, and almost all round him without changing tlie 
inclination of the axis. 

” There could be no doubt whatever that he w^as on the trgck of 
Mr. Charles Pollard.” 

” Positive, sir.” 

** What could Mr. Pollard have been doing in Wapping, and evi- 
dently in disguise, at that hour of the night?” 

” No good, sir.” 

‘‘And the man who was watching him is— made aw^ay with — 
while he gets home safe! Those two gentlemen must be Avatched 
more closely than ever. There is something behind all this.” 

This remark, seeming to be only the outward expression of some 
internal reflection of his chief’s, the detective noted in silence. 

‘‘If, as I now strongly suspect, Messrs. Pollard have something 
to do with the murder of Mr. Barton, they must be in communica- 
tion with some gang which has its head quarters in Wapping.” 

Mr. Garbett’s head moved a little from one side to the other. 

” 1 hardly tJiink so, sir,” he said. ” It’s more likely that place 
was chosen for a rendezvous because it was furthest away from 
their usual haunts. ” 

Mr. Sontag looked up quickly. 

” That is a bright thought, Garbett,” he said, nodding his head 
approvingly. ” You think, then, that tne character of the crime 
rather indicates a superior West-end intelligence — eh?” He smiled 
grimly. 

” I'^think so, sir.” 

” Outside the Invincibles, where is there a man who is capable of 
conceiving and carrying out such a daring and clever design?” 

JMr. Garbett sqrreezed his large lips and tipped his head a little 
more on one side. 

‘‘ Tliere’s Schultz, sir.” 

” The very man 1 was thinking of. Clever, unscrupulous, a per- 
fect dare-devil, if all our reports of him are correct, anil mixed up 
with all these foreign Socialists and criminals. Besides, 1 have a 
^strong suspicion he is the man Avho pawned the watch; but then, 


154 


A WEEK OF PASSION'. 


surely he is too clever a fellow to have risked detection b}’’ doing 
that?” 

“ 1 don’t know, sir. .Some of these fellows seem to act as if they 
rather liked to show off their daring. Very likely he has bolted, 
and wanted to get rid of the watch as a dangerous thing to have 
about him.” 

” Why didn’t he throw it into the river, then?” 

Gaibett slightly shrugged his shoulders. 

‘‘You can never tell. You see, sir, by the pawn-ticket, he got 
twelve pun’ ten on the watch; it’s valuable. Very likely he got 
five hundred guineas for the job — if he did it— but he couldn’t bear 
not to realize this little asset. It’s human nature, 1 suppose. Be- 
sides, he may have thought it a clever way of throwing us off the 
scent. As he pawned iHn the East end, 1 should look for him in 
the West or South-west.” 

‘‘ There’s no sign whatever of Schultz?” 

‘‘ None, sir, since he left his house in Fulham.” 

‘‘ Have you ransacked all his haunts?” 

‘‘All, sir. All the meetings of the societies he used to attend 
have been watched, and everybody we could think of w^ho w'^as ever 
seen with him; but he keeps as close as a weasel. My private opin- 
ion is he’s left the country.” 

‘‘ The difficulty is to guess how Charles Pollard could have got 
into communication with him. Who is the link? Where is the 
link?” 

‘‘ That’s what stumps me, sir. 1 can’t think of any one. But I 
shall. There are a good many respectable gentlemen wffio have 
their little secrets, you know.” 

‘‘ This Dutch Lugger, the report says it has a bad reputation. Is 
there no particular gang connected with it?” 

‘‘ No. It’s a cut-throat place, but that is due to its being a resort 
of low^ foreign seamen. Knives are very often out there, and some- 
times used. The inspector of that district thinks they supply a 
good many ‘ found drowned ’ cases to the river, and the police 
never venture down there alone; but it is not what we should call 
a criminal house of call. • Thai, 1 expect, is the very reason it was 
chosen tor a meeting between Pollard and the people he went to 
see.” 

‘‘ Probably,” said Mr. Sonfag; ” and it is impossible to suppose 
that Mr. Pollard’s business there was a lecilimate one. Well, what 
was it? A very curious thing has happened to-day. Pollards, 
professing to act lor the Earl of Selby, but without his knowledge, 
I am certain, have withdrawn the charge and the advertisement 
against Mr, Barton. The papers are found.” 

‘‘ Indeed, sir!” 

‘‘ Yes. They pretend they were mislaid. I think you said you 
had succeeded in getting hold of a useful source of information in- 
side their office.” 

A brief, gay light filled the dismal crystal of the detective’s orbs 
as h3 replied, 

‘‘ One of their old, confidential cjerks, name of Grayson.” 

*' Good; you must pump him. f want lo know at what hour Mr. 
Charles Pollard left the office last night— Joseph Pollard is ac- 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


155 


counted for; he went home to Regent’s Park, and stayed there — 
and whether Charles Pollard was at his club, as stated by his serv- 
ant? He could not have been there long, as we are ceitaiu he must, 
have been in Wapping. Have you found out w^hat club he be- 
longed to?” 

” ’I’he Thatched House, sir.” 

“ Very well. We must ascertain when and how long he U’^as 
there, and in what company. The porters ot these clubs are very 
close; they keep the secrets of their members well. You will have 
to exercise a little ingenuity.” 

” Easily done, sir.” 

” How?” 

IMr. Sonlag was lond ot testing the intelligence of his agents. 

” The boy who takes the letters to the post. You can see them 
all scuttling down Pall Mall for Charing Cross every evening at 
about quarter to six. He can always see the porter’s regisier with 
the name and hours ot entrj'^ and departure, and he’s the only serv- 
ant besides the commissionnaire who gets out. A sovereign will go 
a long way with him.” 

” Well, that is your affair. No one knows better than you, Gar- 
bett, how to manage these things.” 

A very slight thrill of satisfied pride shook the frame of Mr. Gar- 
bett, which, like many ot the earth-shocks now so frequently re- 
ported in the newspapers, ” Was not attended by any disastrous 
consequences ” to his statuesque rigidity. 

” Then, Garbett, there is another matter 1 should mention. The 
Earl of Selby has just been here with young Barton. He has 
authorized me to ofler a reward of £2000 ” — a stcond slight con- 
vulsion in Mr. Garbett’s frame, and a glimmer in the huge eye-balls 
— ” for the discovery of the murderers ot Mr. Barton in Regent Cir- 
cus. There is no longer room for doubt that lie was the victim, for 
the Earl of Tilbury has recovered consciousness, and stated that he 
recognized him at the moment of the accident. I believe the Earl 
of Selby to be sincere, and he is acting in disagreement with his 
solicitors.. The key to the mystery of Mr. Barton’s fate lies some- 
where in those papers. They have been found, but at any cost 1 
must know' what they are.” 

Mr. Sontag took up the memorandum-book marked ” G. B.,” 
and referred to the advertisement, which he had gummed upon one 
of the leaves. 

” In this advertisement Pollard & Pollard agreed to supply a list 
of those papers to whom it might concern. It concerns us, the de- 
tective police. We ought to have asked for that list immediately; 
we will ask for it now, and 1 will have it, or know the reason why.” 

He touched an electric bell. His clerk, a short-hand writer, ap- 
peared, with a pen behind his ear, a vial of ink suspended at his 
button-hole, and a reporter’s note-book in his hand. 

“ Messrs. Pollard & Pollard, Solicitors^ 155 Lincoln’s Inn Fields. 
Gentlemen,” said Mr. Sontag, and ihe clerk’s hand flew over the 
paper, ” 1 am directed by tlie Chief Commissoner of Police to 
acknowledge receipt ot 5 'our letter ot this date, relating to the dis- 
appearance of'Mr. George Barton, solicitor, of Manor Calliam, Set- 


156 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


by, Yorks, and stating that the ‘ bands, deeds of title, etc.,’ alleged 
in your advertisement to have been missing, and which 3m a sup- 
posed 10 have been abstracted by Mr. Barton, have been found, and 
that this ‘ renders it unnecessaiy, so far as the Earl (of Selb}^) and 
yourselves are concerned, to pursue an}^ further inquiries as to the 
whereabouts of Mr. Barton.’ 

“ 1 am instructed by the chief commissioner to say that this is so 
far satisfactory that it limits the range of inquiry to the single point 
of the cause of the mysterious disappearance of that gentleman: but 
it would appear that you have been imperfectly instructed as to the 
wishes and intentions of your noble client in regard to the further 
inquiries to be made into the causes of Mr. Barton’s disappearance, 
since the earl has himself left instructions at this office to offer a 
reward of two thousand pounds for the discovery of the person or 
persons who murdered ]Mr. Barton, or caused his death, by dyna- 
mite or some other powerful explosive, in Regent Circus, on Thurs- 
day afternoon last. Possibly the earl’s intimation to you of his in- 
tentions in this particular maj^ have been delayed in transmission. 
I am instructed to add that the information now in the possession 
of this department conclusively establishes the identity of Mr. Bar- 
ton with the victim of the Regent Circus catastrophe. 

*‘ In these circumstances, the chief commissioner deems it neces- 
sary that this department should be immediately informed of what 
was the nature of those important documents referred to in your 
advertisement, and supposed to have disappeared with Mr. Barton^ 
as they may tend to throw some light upon the nature of bis rela- 
tions with some person or persons who may have been interested irt 
making atvay with him. And 1 am instructed to beg that yoa 
will, in furtherance of justice, furnish the chief commissioner, per 
bearer, Mi. George Garbett, of this department, with a list and de- 
scription of those documents, and will also kindly inform him 
whether there is any objection to permitting the same to be inspected 
—of course in strict confidence — by an agent of this department — 
etc., etc.” 

“ There,” said Mr. Sontag, ‘‘ this will at least throw som'e per- 
turbation into the enemies’ camp if the}’^ are not innocent. It rather 
exceeds what we have a right to demand, and it gives them some 
important information, which will perhaps surprise them; but from 
this moment, Garbett, those two gentlemen must be placed under 
strict and continuous surveillance. It they are not very sure of 
ttieir ground, they will, after this letter, try to escape, and if they 
do we will run the risk of detaining them. Don’t come back with- 
out that list, and take care that all the outlets from their nffices are 
closely watched. But four men on the duty.” 

” All right, sir.” 

Mr. Garbett’s frame seemed to be galvanized into action by some 
battery of nervous force hidden in his stomach, and with a stiff 
salute, he left the room. 

Mr. Sontag turned to the clerk and dictated an advertisement,, 
headed, ” Murder— Two Thousand Pounds Reward!” setting fortli 
the circumstances of the cataslrophe in Regent Circus, and affirm- 
ing that the victim was George Barton, agent of the Earl of Selby,. 


A AVEEK OE PASSION. 


157 


and offering in tlie earl’s name the above reward, etc. This was 
written out to be submitted to the chief commissioner, and the chief 
of the Detective Department turned to other mysteries with which 
his desk and brains were crowded. No minister of state, with his 
four or live thousand per annum, no judge upon the bencli with an 
equal salary, was ever called upon to exert such forces of intellect, 
such clearness of head, such anxious and incessant diligence, such 
physical capacity for wmrk, as this administrative officer supplied 
for a few hundreds a year. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

LORDS OR COMMONS? 

The sleep of Lady Blanche Layton after her remarkable vigil had 
been beatific but short. AVehave seen that, at a tolerabl}^ early 
hour, she had indited a note, carelessly written, but wdiich now oc- 
cupied a position in the side pocket of Air. George Barton’s coat, 
opposite that emblem of the soft passion which nature has planted 
in every human breast. The weakness of the stromrest men is really 
deplorable. She had also received and read a delicate little penciled 
note from the Countess of Tilbury. It was thus conceived: 

“ Mondaj" Night. 

“ Dearest Blanche,— Ho has asked for you. We have so much 
hope since we find that the brain is so clear and the memory so per- 
fect. His strength, too, is increasing. He s.aid this evening, 
‘ Wouldn’t it be nice if Blanche were my wife, and were here to 
help you?’ 1 let him talk a little. Ah, what a goose I was to-day 
not to take you at jmur word! However, my dear, 1 must see you. 
Come over as soon us you can in the morning. 

“ Your loving 

“ Aunt.’* 

The effect of this missive upon Lady Blanche, who was laziky 
perusing her correspondence in bed, was somewhat phenomenal. 
After a first rapid glance over the note, she jumped out of bed with 
all the energy and insouciance of a school-girl, scattering crested 
notes and cards and envelopes all over the carpet. Tlien, quite un- 
mindful of two little feet which remained uncovered in the immedi- 
ate neighborhood of a pair of crimson satin slippers, embroidered in 
gold, she leaned against the side cf her bed and read over the letter, 
word by word, while an odd mixture of mischief and seriousness 
played in her violet eyes. 

It should be remembered that the last thought she had had before 
she went to sleep had been George Barton, and tne fii*st thing to 
which she had aw'akened in the morning was George Barton; and 
this early thought w’as kindly and expansive. J. can not say that she 
had done much more than hastily think and wuite that little note, 
which then no gold could have repurchased ; but that slight ebulli- 
tion of sentiment and sympathy had left behind it a beneficent feel- 
ing of satisf acton, the cause or the extent of which Lady Blanche 


158 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


Layton would never probably have taken the pains, nor bad the 
occasion, to analyze, had not the countess’s note, and her report of 
the serious thoughts by wuiich the young earl had signalized the 
revival of sensibifity, forced the young lady to conliast the feelings 
with which she had read the one note and indited the other. In- 
deed, a vague cloud of trouble began to be visible in those beautiful 
eyes as she stood there, with her neck bent, and her look fixed on 
the fatal, loving, but diplomatic little scrawl. 

“ Oh, dear!’’ she said, “ how bothersome! What on earth am I 
to do?” 

Her thought was in reality much more profoundly serious than 
would be imagined, from the light frivolity of these words— the first 
eftervescencetothe lips of the trouble which preoccupied her heart. 
All the long reverie of the previous night returned to her now 
rapidly and clearly; the sense of relief that she had not been ” taken 
at her word,” the solemn attestation of her heart that she did not 
love her cousin as a woman should love the man to whom she gives 
up body and soul, the reflections upon her mother’s sage and noble 
words. As yet tliere was no serious arriere pensee in this. No 
other shadow or substance had consciously taken up any strong 
position in the fair citadel that so many brave souls were sighing to 
carry and subdue. But there was a knightly and a melancholy fig- 
ure which stood before the gate, making no summons, attracting 
sympathy, and awakening the interest of the lady of the castle, 
simply by the nobleness of his attitude. And here in this note was 
a second appeal to the same sort of feeling. Her cousin tvas not out 
of danger; he had naively exposed the state of his heart. The ap- 
peal in his case, too, was largely ad muevicordiam. He did love 
her ; and her aunt’s note, however carefully worded to avoid the least 
suggestion of pressure, was colored between the lines with the 
motherly anxiety and afiectionate longing which she was too true, 
as well as too clever, a woman to express in clear terms. 

If George Barton’s dilemma was a serious one, that of Lady 
Blanche was not without ils tragical aspects. She seemed to feel at 
the moment a longing, for reasons she could not, or at least she 
would not, define to herself, to have her heart absolutely free. But 
if she declined to permit any definite reasou for this to take form in 
her thoughts, she had, in reasoning over her mother’s words, begun 
to appreciate, with much more clearness than she had ever done 
before, the weight, the critical importance of that saying, ” Your 
heart is your own, which you alone have the right to dispose of.” 
Alas, how many women there are tor whom that apothegm would 
simply mean the intrusting of their fate to the weakest and most 
imbecile of guardianships! But in Lady Blanche’s case it w^as put 
in strong hands, and her serious midnight reflections had revealed 
to her that she i\’as able and willing lo assume the responsibility, 
and, what Avas more, she had determined to do it. 

The battle, then, was lo be begun at once; for this little note of 
Lady Tilbury’s was a gentle, chiValric summons to the lists: and 
poor Blanche felt her knees tremble, and her heart almost stand 
still at the prospect of the tourney. She must fight for her own 
heart. 

It was later than she expected when the landau, for the earl had 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


159 


borrowed her coupe that morning, drove up to the Tilbury mansion ; 
in fact it was just about lunch time. A carriage turned out to 
make way for hers, and she recognized her own horses and the 
family livery. 

Why, papa must be lunching here, too,” she said; and for some 
inexplicable reason her heart began to beat quickly with a pre- 
monition of some surprise. 

” Is the earl here, Simpson?” 

” He is, Lady Blanche, and young Mr. Barton. Lunch is just 
going to be served in the dining-room. The countess is down for 
the first time.” 

Accordingly, in the morning-room. Lady Blanche found her aunt 
and the two gentlemen. The quiet little emphasis of her ladyship’s 
embrace did not pass unnoticed by the quick young lad 3 q whose 
susceptibilities, moreover, were in a somewhat morbid state of in- 
tensity, and she remarked, with grief and regret, that this empresse- 
ment suddenly aroused within herself some grotesque monkey of 
anger or revulsion, not a| 2 :ainst her aunt, but against the idea she 
seemed to personify. This sent an almost imperceptible chill 
through the effusiveness of her reception and return of the count- 
ess’s embrace, a slight languor of cordiality, which the fine sense of 
the elder woman perceived, but attributed to a wrong cause. 

” You seem a little pale and weary, my dear. 1 fear you do not 
get enough sleep.” 

“It is rather hard work to be a fashionable lady,” replied Lady 
Blanche, with a slight tone of bitterness, which she endeavored to 
neutralize by a little laugh, “ and, unhappily, the labor is so use- 
' less.” 

The earl laughed. 

“ My dear Blanche, ’ he said, “ even butterflies have their place 
in the economy of nature.” 

“ And fleas— and gnats,” she replied, quickly, with a saucy glance 
at her father. “ How are you, Mr. Bartton?” 

The transfiguration of Barton’s somber face, when at length the 
young lady turned to him and familiarly held out her hand, could 
not escape the keen eyes of the countess, though the earl did not, 
see it. An arrow went through Lady Tilbury’s heart, and she said 
to herself, “ AVhat does this mean?” A man in Barton’s position 
needs to practice all the subtlety and feint which Machiavelli revin- 
dicates for government and diplomacy, if he would not prematurely 
betray himself to the intuitive perspicacity of feminine spectators. " 

Blanche was conscious of the mistake he was making in allowing ^ 
his cheek to flush and his eye to brighten and rest upon, her lace, 
with just a little too much emphasis of adoration, and she was angry 
at it. She withdrew her hand quickly, and turning to her aunt, “ 
plunged rapidly into a series of animated questions about her 
cousin’s condition. The doctors now pronounced him in a fair way 
of recovery, unless some sudden excitement should occasion a re- 
lapse. 

Barton, in the presence of the Sun, was standing in the shadows. 
Lady Blanche took care not to give him either the occasion cr the 
encouragement to look at her again as he had done. 1 think she 
was a little annoyed to be thus obliged to stand upon her guard, and 


160 


A AVEEK OF PASSION. 


that possibly some such thought as this was formulated in the in- 
most sanctum of her mind — “ What fools men are!” And it is true 
that in matters of love men are the weakest and most inartistic of 
actors. Altogether Blanche was somewhat worried and disap- 
pointed with this lunch. She had the apprehension of what was to 
come after it, and no satisfaction whatever from Barton’s presence. 
She knew what had taken place at the Temple, for the faithful 
Lord Charles had returned and told her ererythinir — except, of 
course, that one bit of imbecility about the note, which he never 
could liave suspected —and she could not refer to that interview in 
the present company. There bad already been established, there- 
fore, a sort of subterranean sympathy and communication between 
these two young people. 

Altogether, this lunch was not a gay or happy one. The count- 
■ess was too anxious about her son’s health and future happiness to 
be expansive; the earl was preoccupied with subjects which the 
presence of others forced him to avoid; and Barton, after the slight 
repulse administered to him by the fair lady, relapsed into mono- 
syllabic gloom. Blanche, who felt the need of saying something to 
keep herself in countenance, talked on incessantly to a very un- 
appreciative audience. 

“ Blanche,” said the earl, slyly, at the end of the lunch, ” you 
have been most heroic. 1 never heard you say so much in the same 
time, and to three such indifferent auditors. We owe you an apol- 
ogy. But you have nothing to think of — while we are all heavily 
charged with our separate and special anxieties.” 

He heaved a sigh and uttered these last words with a melancholy 
cadence. 

Blanche reddened a little at this speech which, like so many of 
those hasty little cynicisms of clever men, cut deeply, and replied, 
as she glanced at her aunt, and just for an instant at Barton, who 
stood with his eyes on the floor, 

” If 1 have nothiniz to think of— though I think 1 have enough 
to occupy a weak intellect like mine, my lord~it is because you do 
not choose to let me share your anxieties wdtli you. 1 should like 
to try at least to prove that I was something more than the butter- 
fly. I might spin a cocoon—” 

” And become a gruD,” said the earl, who couldn’t resist the re- 
tort. ” Wy dear Blanche,” he said, putting his arm on her shoulder 
fondly, ‘‘ there is time enough for you to know" the worries of life. 
There is your aunt there, who will tell you how soon and how" fast 
such weeds grow" in the faireH gardens.*” 

” 1 am not talking of weeds, my dear father,” said Lady Blanche, 
gravely, ” nor of flower-beds. 1 was thinking more of the com- 
monplace utilities w"hich would be more correctly figured by a mar 
ket-gardeu.” 

” Cabbages!” cried the earl. “Onions, carrots, aspra-agus, Brus- 
sels—” 

A little hand W"as put over his mouth. 

lou sha’n’t make tun af me, my lord. You know" you don’t 
mean it, you provoking creature you; but you— you treat me like a 
fool, and— and I don’t like it,” said Lady Blanche, on whose fair, 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


161 


bloomins: cheek two little crystal si."ns of vexation suddenly spriirg 
to the liglit. She bit her lip, and turned away rapidly to hide tliem. 

“ God forbid, my dear cliildl” said the earl, taking both her 
hands in his and pressing them affectionately. “ No one knows bet- 
ter than 1 do that there is a serious and clever brain inclosed in that 
charming bonnet. Your useful time is coming. 1 would only save 
you as long as 1 can from the vulgar troubles and trials of life,” 

I’he countess, who wished that this little scene had had no 
fourth spectator, brusquely put her arm througn that of her niece 
and drew her toward the door. 

” Your cabbage-garden will be ready for your little spade soon 
enough, my dear,” she said. ” Good morning, Mr! Barton. God 
help you in your troubles! I should like to see your mother as soon 
as 1 can get out and she feels able to receive me.” 

‘‘ And please, Mr. Barton, give her my best love and sympathy,” 
added Lady Blanche, ” and say 1 will Try to find that place in the 
City — the Salisbury — 1 shall remember the name of the Conserva- 
tive leader— and take her home with me for a few hours. She must 
be heart-broken.” 

The contrast between the patronizing manner of the countess and 
the frank, equal cordiality of Lady Blanche’s words struck Barton 
keenly. 

The ladies bowed as he opened the door for their exit, and the 
earl, excusing himself for a moment, followed them. The young 
man sighed, ^strolled to the window and looked gloomily out 
Never had his love been more frantically intense, or looked moie 
intensely hopeless. With the delicate supersensitiveness of the 
lover who is not sure of his ground, he divined that the countess 
had guessed his secret, and was annoyed, Never before had her tone 
and manner to him been more accentuated with hauteur. 

” Is it a plenary amnesty?” said the peer, when they were in the 
hall, putting on an air of half-comic, lialf-earnest anxiety. In this 
period of critical trouble his heart turned with an eager longing 
toward the affection of this daughter, the living image and reflec- 
tion of his dead wife. His feelings had been touched by those two 
little tell-tales on her cheeks, and he could not bear to carry away, 
among his other anxieties, the thought that he had left, however 
minute, a thorn in her young heart. 

“Nonsense, my dear earl,” said the countess, whom this inci- 
dent, for some subtle reason, had violently displeased. “ 1 thought 
Blanche had ceased to be a child, and that you had long since at- 
tained to 5^ears of discretion. One can see that you are beginning to 
pass beyond them. Such a little scene before that boy George Bar- 
ton, was quite out of place, and ridiculous! Come away, Blanche,” 
she added, trying, with ill-success, to alter her tone into one of 
good-humored banter: “ 1 am going to be yery angry with you, and 
giye you a bfowing-up.” 

“ Poor Blanche!” said the earl; “ 1 am afraid you are going to 
be committed for trial; but, perhaps this time the ‘ beak ’ will let 
you off with a caution.” 

The countess was quite out in her tactics — an error which must 
be attributed to eagerness and anxiety on behalf of the patient up- 
stairs. Her niece had yiews of her own as to what was discreet and 
6 


162 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


wlial was permissible in society, and a certain sentiment of rebellion 
against the tyrannies of conventionality. She did not feel at all 
ashamed of having exhibited a little srenerous, womanly feeling be- 
fore George Barton, and moreover the countess’s reference to him 
as “ that boy ” had curiously annoyed her. Why? Well, gentle or 
ungentle, reader, why a woman thinks anything is never an easy 
question to answer; but it can not be overlooked by the most care- 
less lounger over these pages that the Lady Blanche had in a sense 
taken young Barton under lier patronage, and had vouchsafed 
him her royal sympathy and good-will, and it was derogatory to the 
dignity of her sentiments to have the object, or the subject, of those 
regal sentiments contemptuously designated as “ that boy.” 

At any other time the acute, sensible woman of the world would 
probably have recollected that scorn is the last weapon to level 
against the object of a woman’s interest when she is young and 
generous, and especially when, as in this case, that object is one 
against whom it is leveled unjustly. For no one knew better, or 
more highly appreciated than the countess, the sterling, manly 
qualities of the person of whom she had permitted heiself to speak 
in a tone of halt-comic disparagement. Blanche, surprised at this 
little outbreak, was naturally put upon her ingenuity to guess the 
cause of it, and to attribute it to its real motive, her ladyship’s 
motherly preoccupation about her son. That even angels ma}" have 
bud tempers, we know from the history of the devil and our own 
domestic experiences, and Lady Blanche had, with all her sweet- 
ness, a little hidden bag of gall in her temperament. And just then 
her frame was in a somewhat hypergesthetic condition — one by no 
means favorable to the kind of treatment which the poor, anxious 
mother, wearied and excited by her sen’s illness, and piqued to the 
core by that tell-tale radiance on the face of the impolitic Burton, 
was disposed to adopt. The young lady, indeed, resolved, instead 
of waiting for the attack, to be beforehand with it; and no sooner 
had she and her aunt reached the boudoir (devoted to the latter 
when she was on a visit to her son’s house), than she said, 

“ 1 am afraid, dear aunt, you wMll find me a very contumacious 
criminal, for 1 don’t for the life of me see what impropriety the 
earl and 1 have committed which merits 5mur displeasure.” 

Her ladyship looked with some surprise at Lady Blanche, whose 
firm tone and heightened color gave a perfectly clear indication that 
her aunt’s proposed correction was not going to be meekly received. 
The countess knew her niece’s character, and sometimes had been 
heard to express her regret, though generally with good-humored 
toleration, that the comparative independence the young lady lind 
enjoyed since her mother’s death had tended to make her too dog- 
matic and self-willed. 

“ Well, my dear,” said the countess, who was inwardly nettled 
by the rather peremptory fashion in which her niece had summoned 
her to explanations, but who really wished to avoid any unpleas- 
antr ess, ” you see there are certain things that ought only'^to b*e said 
and done among ourselves, in the intimacy of the family. Don’t 
you think that it w^as rather indiscreet to haVe such a little scene— a 
perfect little scene, my dear Blanche— tears on your cheeks— some 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 1G3 

pettishness in your voice— especially, ycu know, hetore that young 
person — ” 

“ What, my clear aunt, George Barton?” cried the young lady in. 
a tone of raillery. 

” Gracious goodness, my dear, what are you coming to? You 
mention this young iDeison’s name with a familiarity which aston- 
ishes me—” 

” Why, my dear aunt, what do you mean? George Barton is one 
of Charlie’s best friends, and almost one of the family.” 

“Obi” cried the countess, deeply oftended by Lady Blanche’s 
tone, and more by her manner, both being frivolous and provoking. 
(These nuances of feminine expression are indescribable, unless one 
employed dderent colored inks and various fonts of type, to which 
our publisher unreasonably objects.) “ Oh! ‘ almost one of the fam- 
ily!’ That, my dear, is one of the most extraordinary of all the ex- 
traordinary things 1 ever heard you say. This young person — a 
most worthy and excellent young man, for whom, in his place, 1 
have a great deal of esteem — you speak of in such terms as that! 
Truly, 1 think it is lime that some one should offer you a little 
kindly advice, for you are strangely wanting in discretion. No 
wonder the young gentleman permitted himself, even in the solemn 
circumstances in which he is placed, to look at you to-day with a 
broadness of familiarity which 1 can assure you, my dear, to me 
was perfectly startling, if that is the light in which you allow him 
to suppose you view him. ‘ Almost like one of the family,’ indeed! 
Is that, think you, the footing upon which the earl receives him?” 

Lady Blanche bit her lip. She was vexed that her aunt had sur- 
pri.sed young Barton’s look, which she hoped had escaped unnoticed 
by any* one but herself. However, in rather impolitically letting this 
out, tiie countess had shown the cause of these tears. She had seen 
with what perfect corectness her niece had treated Barton’s too pro- 
nounced admiration; yet her jealousy on Lord Tilbury’s behalf had 
prompted the suspicion, quick as lightning, that there must have 
been some previous indiscretion or unconscious familiarity on her 
niece’s part, or the young man would never have so far forgotten 
his position. Lady Blanche, for all she was not an accomplished 
v.'or Idling, traced the threads of this little movement on the part of 
her aunt quite accurately, and a certain annoyance and defiance 
against it arose in her heart. Tims, by a series of the minutest and 
most petty provocations, the two women who loved each other with 
sucfi sincerity, and had not an atom of a desire to be other than 
true and loyal lo their affection, were gradually working up to a 
crisis of discord. 

For Lady Blanche tossed her head, and there was a fine movement 
of her delicate nostrils which meant mischief. She did not con- 
descend to laugh oft her aunt’s suspicion, which wms the most 
politic course, or explain it away, w’hich was the proper thing to do; 
but she boldly accepted the imputation and proceeded to defend it 
—a course wdiich can only be characterized by us. wdio know the 
exact state of affairs, to have been most tortuous and vexatious. 
But this comes of “ putting up the monkey ” of a spoiled yming 
belle. She retorted upon her aunt, whose remark the reader will 
ffna, we fear, in the preceding page. 


164 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


“ George Barton, my dear aunt, is tbe sou of a gentleman whom 
my father speaks of as one of the best friends he ever had. He 
said so only last night at dinner. He also said that the son was as 
worthy as his father, only that he was far more able and certain to 
have a brilliant career. Charlie and 1 have known him almost ever 
since we were in long clothes, and at Selby, since he became a man, 
he has always been received as a friend. In my opinion, I freely 
confess that no man of his age or near it whom 1 Lave met is able 
to hold a candle to him." The countess started, and examined her 
niece with a face of almost tragic anxiety. “ 1 mean, of course,’"' 
continued the young iady, “ as regards knowledge and talent and 
all that. There are men of more distinguished air and higher breed- 
ing, but very few of greater distinction." 

“ Why, my dear Blanche," cried the countess, who during this 
long speech had had time to collect herself, and to recognize the 
danger of the ground on which they were treading, " I must say you 
are very chivalrous in defense of your protege, and you do it very 
well. It is fortunate there is no one but your discreet old aunt here 
to listen to you. 1 happen to know that your partisanship is per- 
fectly difeinterestea, because 1 only yesterday was the recipient of 
your confidences " — Lady Blanche’s face became crimson, for this 
hit was palpable — " but other, people might mistake you. Don’t let 
us pursue the subject, if it is disagreeable to you. 1 will own that 
Mr. Barton is a concentrated and triple extract of ail the virtues,, 
and an adniirahle friend tor Charlie; but don’t encourage him ta 
look at you like that, my dear, or you may make a wreck of a very 
worthy young man." 

'll! us the countess— adroitly, some people would think— tried to 
soothe the young lady’s irritation; but really the etficacy of this 
somewhat ironic tender of peace from the other side, before the 
quarrel was actually engaged, was nil. It shut up the young lady 
for the moment, and so far was a diplomatic victory ; but we know 
how often, in a higher field, the moral effect of the superiority gained 
in an epigrammatic contest among diplomatists has been reversed 
and destroyed by the stronger arguments of " force and arms." 

“ Now," said the countess, the expression of her face changing 
to one of seriousness and affection, " my dear, let us talk of some- 
thing else, which lies much nearer my heart. Boor dear Edward, 
thank God, is, so the physicians tell me, out of danger — unless in- 
deed something should excite him." (A slight stress on these 
words.) "Now let us talk together as mother and daughter. Since 
your own mother died, no one has been more intimate with you 
than I— no one, 1 am persuaded, knows you better or loves 3 'ou "bet- 
ter than 1 do "—the countess leaned over and took Blanche’s hand 
and held it in her own, caressing it softly. 

The young lady tried to force herself to exhibit some reciprocal 
cordiality, but found it impossible. For the moment she was on her 
guard; she resolved that she would not be entrapped into any display 
of feeling which might give rise to false hopes. She therefore re- 
ceived her aunt’s demonstrations with an attitude which might be 
designated an affectionate passivity. 

" No one loves you better than 1 do," pursued the countess; 

and the step you took yesterday, though to any one who did not 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


165 


know you as well as 1 do it might seem to be veiy strange and ro- 
mantic, proved to me how sincerely you value and reciprocate my 
affection.” 

“ That, my dear aunt,” said Lady Blanche, warmly, as she kissed 
the cheek ot the stately woman beside her, ” did not require any 
fresh demonstration, I hope.” 

” No; but this peculiar ‘ demonstration,' as you call it, was one 
that 1 had no right to look for, one which only a girl of your rare 
force of character and independence would make; and although 1 am 
far from approving ot it in the abstract ” — the countess smiled—” it 
was very pleasant and touching in the concrete. Now, my dear, 
yesterday 1 took the only right and honorable course. 1 should 
never have forgiven myself — however strong the temptation — had 1 
taken advantage of your romantic generosity and young inexperience 
to bring about a result which i desire and pray for with all my heart 
and soul. 1 have looked societ}' through and through, and, ques- 
tion of fortune and all that quite apart, 1 tell you, though you are 
mj’^ own niece, there is no woman whom Tilbury could find so 
worthy to be his wife, and to fill the high station to which it has 
pleased God to call him.” 

The countess still had about her some of those old-fashioned 
superstitious which now charm the hearer because of the contrast 
ot the naive and simple archaic oddity w.ith the neat, exact precision 
of modern skepticism. 

Lady Blanche remained silent. She would gladly have given up 
every hope she had of fortune to have recalled or wiped out that 
act of yesterday. The difficulty she now had to encounter was how 
to reconcile her altered lone, attitude, feelings of to-day, with that 
impulsive effusion; how” to explain to her aunt that in twenty-four 
hours her generous feelings had all vanished, and given place to a 
solemn conclusion that she had made a mistake — one that must not 
be repeated under any inducements. She trembled as she thought 
how” nearl}'' impossible it was to make the countess a confidante of 
the train of influences which had effected so sudden a change in her 
feelings, or, to speak more accurately, had so suddenly chilled the 
enthusiasm of her self-devotion. Lady Tilbury would look upon 
her as hopelessly volatile, and frivolous, and Blanche’s conscience 
added, ” with very good reason.” 

” Now” yesterday,” continued the countess, ” 1 was not so certain 
— though 1 w”as tolerably sure ot the stale of Edward’s feelings 
towuird you— as 1 am to-day. Dearest Blanche,” said the countess, 
drawing the girl’s head down on her bosom, and thus concealing the 
scarlet blushes which began to mantle her young cheeks, ” he has 
spoken to me very freely, and there is no doubt that the feelings he 
entertains tor you are such as you would desire to find in the man 
who w”as to become your husband, those of deep and strong affec- 
tion. In fact, he put it in his own blunt way — ‘ Blanche or no- 
body.’ 1, of course, did not breathe a word to him ot w”hat had 
passed between us.” 

Blanche started. She did not like this apparently needless denial 
of wffiat would have been a shameful breach of confidence. 

” Oh, 1 should think not. Aunt Dora!” 

The countess certainly had ” not breathed a word to him of what 


1G6 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


bad passed between them.” She bad been quite loyal and true as 
regarded that incident; but, to encourage and please her son, she 
had allowed him to gather from something she said, without con- 
tradicting him, that she thought Lady Blanche would not be indis- 
posed to give a favorable ear to his pretensions. Had she broken 
faith? It- is like one of those questions of social casuistry with 
which “Vanity Fair” amuses and bothers its readers, when the 
most unsatisfactory thing of all is the “ correct “ answer, 

“ Well now, dearest Blanche,” continued the countess, “the 
matter has become serious, for his brain is overexcited, and conse- 
quently this idea, which 1 dare say was occupying it at the moment 
the accident occurred, perhaps had been doing so for a long time, 
has suddenly revived with extraordinary force and intensity. He 
asks to see you, Blanche. We must humor him. You must at least 
try to brace yourself up to the effort.” Lady Blanche released her- 
self from her ladyship’s arms, and jumping to her feet, listened to 
her with staitled attention. “ Don’t be alarmed; 1 only asR you to 
see him, and let him talk to you for a few minutes. You need not 
■commit yourself. I adhere to what I said yesterday — do not give 
3 muv hand where your heart is not engaged; but oh, Blanche! I 
<lo wish, with all my heart and soul, that you could love him, and 
be happ 3 ' together!” The countess clasped her hands in a gesture 
half of anguish, half of prayer. 

Lady Blanche had turned pale; her fingers were nervously twisted 
together. All the peril of her position was as clear before her as a 
southern landscape in the noon of day. 

“ Dear Aunt Dora,” she said, putting her hands on her heart, “ 1 
don’t know what to say. Y'ou know — yesterday — 1 told you ex- 
actly how 1 was prompted; 1 am afraid 1 was very silly — not 
romantic — but downright foolish — prompted by some stupid idea of 
•sacrifice — arising partly, also, 1 tear, from utter weariness of the 
part 1 have to play in society, and the importunities of a lot of 
idiots. 1 hate the whole lot of them!” she added, with savage en- 
ergy. 

“My dear, my dear!” cried the countess, “really such expres- 
sions lire quite loo decided.” 

“ IS ever mind, Aunt Dora, it is true. Well, we are not talking 
of them. But you know, aunt, just like yourself, you declined to 
take advantage of my chivalrous humor, and you set me thinking, 
by what you said, about the serious and dangerous nature of the 
step 1 bad so thoughtlessly taken, and — of my dear mother’s words 
and ideas.” 

“Ah,’- said the countess to herself, while a chill went through 
her, “yes; her mother was loo romantic. There was that aflair 
of the young attache— Troppau. If she once begins to act on 
her motliers’s words ami ideas— why ’’-—and her thoughts paused on 
the edge of a gulf which some people call “It’s all up!” — “she 
might even take to that 3 mung Barton!” 

Quite unconscious of her aunt’s soliloquy, Blanche continued; 

“ She always impressed on me the duty of respecting my own 
heart— of putting a proper estimate on the value of that aftection 
which it was my own right to give or to withhold, of guarding my- 
self carefully from making any mistake as to my real feelings, and 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 16? 

of not allowing any merely external or social considerations to mis- 
lead my judgment.” 

” That, my dear,” said the countess, Orusquely, ” was a 'Jad ’ of 
your mother’s— a vulgar 'word, but permit me to use it; and that 
last sentiment requires to be taken with many qualifications. Ex- 
ternal and social considerations, I can tell you, have an immense 
deal to do with the sympathy and the happiness of two people who 
are linked together irrevocably for their life- time, and, if they are 
not everything, they can not safely be disregarded. 1 never knew 
them to be treated with contempt, or absolutely overlooked, with- 
out causing unhappiness, and sometimes even crime and wrong- 
doing. These wmrds, I fear, are your own words, my dearest 
Blanche, and an exaggeration of your mother’s principles. But *here, 
you know, all her friends thought that she was sometimes a little 
erratic in her views on those questions.” 

” You can not wonder. Aunt Dora, if 1 think she was perfect, 
and 1 only wish 1 could share all her good qualities at the expense 
of her faults, if she had an]-. Thank Heaven 1 can remember noth- 
ing of her that was not supremely noble and generous! Next to 
her, 1 put you among my household gods; but if you love me, or 
would continue to hold the first place in my heart of all my living 
idols, you will never breathe a single breath on the memory of my 
dear mother.” 

Everything was noble and touching about this little speech, as 
the countess remarked, admiring the words, the tone, the attitude, 
the emotion which trembled on the lips and sparkled dew -like on 
the long lashes of the violet eyes. The elder lady rose and drew the 
girl to her bosom, where for a minute or two, in the revulsion of 
her overcharged feelings, the beauty of the season relieved herself 
by a little storm of sobs and an April shower of tears. The countess 
was quite conquered. She felt that this w'as no ordinary heart which 
. throbbed against her owm, no commonplace w’oman, whose chief 
qualities lay in the frail loveliness of Outer form and the charms of 
expression, but a true, fine type of a noble race. She was all the 
more to be coveted for a daughter-in-law ; but the mother then 
vowed that nothing should induce her to do aught to dislurb the 
free action of this pure and generous nature. 

‘‘ Would that I were blessed with such a daughter as you, my 
own loved Blanche!” said the countess, as a tear dropped from 
her cheek and mingled with those of her niece; ” but only if your 
own heart and will come with you. Only trust me freely, and all 
‘that 1 can do to secure you the perfect happiness you deserve shall 
be done.” 

Peace having thus been proclaimed, the two women engaged in a 
long conversation, in which Lady Blanche frankly disclosed to her 
aunt the state of her heart, as elie had analyzed and determined it 
only a few hours before. One thing she did not refer to: it was the 
interesting figure of George Barton, which had so shadowy and 
. furtive a place in her thoughts that she did not deem it necessary to 
advert to it. Blanche did not yet herself know why that earnest 
longing had come upon her to keep her heart free— for what spirit- 
guest it was that the* fair apartment was to be swept and garnished. 

Outwardly preserving a perfect composure, but with an inward 


168 


A WEEK OE PASSION". 


trepidation, Lady Blanche accompanied the countess to the magnifi- 
cent apartment where all that wealth could do to make sickness 
tolerable, and even luxurious, had been done with the joint help of 
science and affection. Perfect quiet, a cool subdued light, an atmos- 
phere charged with reviving odors, all the apparel of a sick-chamber 
laid out neat and ready to hand, and two sweet-faced bisters of St. 
John, in their sober but elegant costume, moving about with grace 
and gentleness. .At a sign they noiselessly vanished, after an ad- 
miriiTg and sympathetic glance at the fair apparition that came to 
bring a fresh life and brightness into the chamber of suffering. 

The young earl, pale and feeble, lay propped up by the pillows, 
and surrounded by the dazzling whiteness of the finest linen, with 
his eyes half shut and his features in repose. The glow of manly 
health had gone from his face, and the boyish fullness from his 
cheeks, while his close-cut hair gave to his tall forehead an even 
greater expansion than ordinary, the whole making him appear 
several years older than before his accident. There was also, 
Blanche quickly noticed, a gravity in his expression and in his man- 
ner of speaking which was quite new. 

His face lighted up as his eyes turned toward the young girl, 
■who, gliding Filently to his bedside, took his hand and pressed it 
affectionately. 

“ Poor old Dolly!” she said. 

This was the nickname by which he was called by his cousins and 
intimates, and which had followed him on the turf. It probably, 
like most nicknames, owed its origin to the fact that it had no 
precise applicability to the person on whom it had been fastened, or it 
may have been given him because of his exquisite attention to costume 
and toilet. On her lips, used and spoken with the prettiest and 
finest tact, because it went to the extreme limits of cousinly 
familiarity without implying any deeper feeling, it made him smile. 
Then he said, gravely, still holding her hand, 

” Dolly is dead. Cousin Blanche. How good of you to come! It 
makes me feel better to see you!” 

He held her hand tightly in his white, thin, but still nervous 
fingers, while he devoured her face with his eyes, the blue depths of 
which sparkled with pleasure. 

” What do you mean?” she said, with a little forced laugh to 
c.over the awkwardness of her position, for she had not the heart to 
draw away her hand just then. 

” 1 shall rise from this bed, dear cousin, a different man. That’s 
what 1 mean. My stud will be put up at Tattersall’s as soon as* 
ever 1 can give the order. The turf will know Dolly no more. 1 
will try and make myself more worthy of the affection and respect 
of souls that are nobler and better than mine.” 

He looked at her with a grave earnestness; there was no mistak- 
ing the language of his eyes. 

She had not returned the speaking pressure of his hand, and al- 
most involuntarily, and feeling embarrassed by the position, she 
made a move to draw it away. His eyes fell;’ he raised the little 
hand to his lips, and let it drop. He knew his fate was decided. 

The countess, with her hand on her heart and her breath held in, 
followed the minutest details of this little scene with eager eyes, and 


A AVEEK OF PASSIOFT. 


169 

she read its meaning Avilh the sibylline inspiration of maternal solici- 
tude. She tvas astonished at the calmmss with which her son, 
begging Blanche to take the chair by his side, asked her a few ques- 
tions about her occupations, with one or two mischievous allusions 
to men whose attentions to her had been conspicuous. Then sud- 
denly he said, 

“ By the way, have you seen George Barton?" 

fie turned his eyes, which had been moving about with a sick 
man’s restlessness, full upon his cousin’s face as he put the query, 
and in spite of herself, to her horror and vexation, she felt the warm 
blood fly to her cheek as she replied. 

“ He was here just now at lunch with the earl.’’ 

" George Barton here!’’ cried the young peer, turning his glance 
upon his mother. “ 1 should like to have seen him." 

The countess attributed Lady Blanche’s warm color to the little 
controversy they had had down -stairs, but she commanded her own 
face admirably, and now spoke kindly of “ that person.’’ 

“ Oh, 1 wish 1 had known it, my dear boy; 1 thought it would 
have been painful to you. He is very busy with the earl just now. 
We will try and get him to come and see you. Blanche, you can 
manage that.’’ 

‘‘ 1 wiU tell the earl to bring him again,’’ replied Blanche, with a 
slight confusion of manner, for this wlte-face of the countess was 
really too shamefully immoral 1 " He seems to have taken his fa- 
ther’s place, and become the earl’s right-hand man. They weie to- 
gether till one o’clock this morning, and they are together now. 
He suffered dreadfully last night when he heard the sad, news you—" 

The countess’s finger went up to her lips in a quick, terrified 
movement. But it was too late. 

" What!’’ cried the young earl, starting uneasily. " Then it was? 
—old Barton, then, is dead! Mother— Blanche— tell me the wfiiole 
truth. It only worries me with excitement trying to make out how 
1 came to be here." 

After giving him a rapid sketch of the facts, the countess rose 
hurriedly, and giving Lady Blanche a sign to retire, crossed the 
room to summon thelwo nursing Sisters. 

Blanche gave her hand once more to her cousin, and once more 
he raised it to his lips. 

" Cousin Blanche," he said, in a voice thrilling with emotion, but 
with a soft and gentle pleading in his eyes, " forgive a poor sick 
cousin’s fancy, and leave him a blessing which will do no wrong to 
the virgin purity of your heart. Give me one kiss on my forehead 
before you go." 

There was an instant’s hesitation, but looking into his eyes she 
read there the epitaph of a hopeless passion. 

She stooped quickly and kissed his brow. 

‘‘ Thank you!” he said; and he closed his eyes. 

Blanche silently left the room. Slie knew that nothing had hap- 
pened which ought to alter her decision in the least, and yet— her 
heart had almost melted. 

The countess, who had stopped to give some directions to the 
nurses, returning to the room found that Blancne had left. She 
approached the bed unperceived. The young earl, his eyes shut, 


170 


A AYEEK OF PASSIOiy-. 


lay with a calm face, on which there ^vas the passing radiance of a 
smile. From underneath the closed lids a tear had escaped and 
coursed down his cheek. 

She kissed it away. 

“ Can you hear it, my son?” she wliispered. 

‘‘ I can bear anything now to make her happy. Mother, 1 did 
not know before how much 1 loved her.” 

As the countess, after pressing his hand with maternal warmth 
and sympatli}' , was turning away, he spoke again ; 

“ Please ask Blanche not to forget to send Barton to see me. 1 
want to see him soon— to-morrow.” 

The countess was ratlier puzzled by the earnestness of the young 
earl’s insistence in this matter, and, as she was revolving it in her 
mind while leaving the room, she suddenly exclaimed to herself, 

‘‘By the way, Collops told me that Mr. Barton had called and 
asked to see me yesterday. "What does it mean, 1 wonder? 1 am 
not aware of any reason why he should wish to — unless— no, surely 
—impossible! Just now— and with all that anxiety about his father. 
1 must see him and find out what he has to say. It is quite mys- 
terious!” 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE NET TIGHTENING. 

In the coupe, as it was being driven rapidly from Scotland Yard 
to Grosvenor Place, a few words had been exchanged betw^een the 
earl and George Barton, which, in order to form a true conception 
of the psychological phenomena of this day— so remarkable, so crit- 
ical, big with the destinies of so many of the characters whose fates, 
long in preparing, seemed to have become concentrated within the 
circle of this week of passion— it is essential that the reader should 
overhear . 

The earl spoke first. 

‘‘ Barton,” he said, ‘‘ I know that the step I have just taken is not 
consistent with the understanding we came to last night that we 
were to do nothing without consulting each other.” 

‘‘ 1 w’as going to remark,” said Barton, ” that however grateful 
your kind action was to my feelings, 1 should, had 1 been consulted, 
have suggested to you a more cautious manner of going to w'ork. 1 
have not yet given up the hope that your secret may be kept out of 
the proceedings which must be taken to bring these men to book.” 

‘‘ Nor 1,” said the earl, ” though I am puzzled to see how!” 

” Your generous move to-day certainly makes it more difficult. 
That man Sontag is a keen detective. He already suspects more 
than he owns to us. 1 ought to tell you, my lord— forgive me for 
putting it in words— 1 gathered, from his language to-day, that he 
suspects you are in some way connected with others in this melan- 
choly business. ” 

The earl’s face flushed, for his pride naturally revolted against the 
idea of being an object of suspicion to an agent of the police. 

His brow grew dark, his lips trembled. For a minute or two he 
looked silently out of the window. He could not speak. 


A WEEK OF PASSIO]^. 


171 

George Barton tvas sorry lo have inflicted this pain, but it was an 
intimation which, having regard to the footing on which he now 
stood with the peer, it would have been cowardly and wrong tor 
him to suppress. 

“ Thank you,” said the earl, presently—” thank you. It is well 
1 should know this, how^ever sharply it wounds me. I shall have 
to swallow much bitterness before my error is purged— it ever it 
may be — if ever it may be!” he added, shaking his head discon- 
solately. 

What could George Barton say — the young to the old — the inex- 
perienced to the veteran man of the world — the humble commoner 
to the haughty aristocrat— who had uttered such words as these? 
Once the day before, in the excitement ot a jDassionate scene, the 
young man had ventured to offer a word of consolation when the 
peer had bewailed his fallen dignity; but now, in this moment of 
calm despondency, he felt that both his position and his force were 
inadequate to the duty of offering friendly sympathy and encour- 
agement to such a man. 

So he kept silent, and the earl appreciated his delicacy; for, so 
trained were the peer’s extraordinary faculties, that it was almost 
an instinct with him to observe and to judge every psychological 
phase of the characters with which he was in actual contact, and 
this even in hours of the deepest emotion. \\^hen the countess died, 
and his sorrow was at its height, a bishop, one of his most intimate 
friends, who had attended at her bedside in tlie last moments, re- 
mained a tew da3’S at Selbj. He was a man of eminent intellect, 
renowned for his remarkable insight into human nature, his singular 
powder of spiritual introspection and analysis, his sympathy, his 
socidX finesse, his religious worldlmess. So composite and difflcult 
a character was hardly ever submitted to human observation. \ et, 
amid all the sadness and preoccupation of the earl’s spirit, by an 
almost unconscious action of the mind, he was, under peculiarly 
unguarded conditions, analyzing his Right Reverend friend’s char- 
acter; and his perception of its inner lights and shades, its pro- 
founder faults and excellencies was at that time so keen, so exact, 
so intense, that when, some years after, the bishop died, and the 
earl recalled the judgment he had then formed, he was himself as- 
tonished at the justice and accuracy of his appreciations, although 
they had not for one moment diverted him from his overpov/ering 
grief. The same kind of parallel action of the faculties takes place 
in the familiar instance of the orator when a train of thought sug- 
gested by some face in the audience is carried on in one section of 
the brain, while the main argument of the speech, with all appro- 
priate emphasis and action, is being pursued with uninterrupted 
clearness and force. But the earl’s faculty was much finer in de- 
gree. 

Having reflected for a few minutes, and recovered his calm, he 
turned to his companion and said, 

” You are young to be a witness of these emotions, the confidant 
of these painful and compromising secrets; but 1 am gratified to 
see how modestly you face so novel an experience. 1 have for long 
been accustomed to measure the true capacity of a man by the con- 
scious or unconscious estimate he forms of his own forces. The 


172 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


conscious estimate, which is onl}^ the developed gnotlii saunton, is 
usually, almost always, exact and trustworthy — if here and there it 
fails from weakness of intelligence; the unconscious is the loose, 
indefinite estimate which leads a man both to undervalue and over- 
value his own powers. The man who deliberately sits down and 
carefully calculates his own forces is modest and is rare. The other 
constantly miscalculates, and generally blunders. Just now an im- 
pulsive young man in your position would have said something to 
me; and as 1 am an old, hardened, cynical, blase man of the world, 
would infallibly have said the wrong thing. Your silence w-as 
golden; it was deliberately adopted; it has given me a higher 
opinion of you, George Barton, than anything you have said or 
done to-day.” 

Even George Barton was probably unable at the moment to ap- 
predate the exquisite tact by which the peer had extricated both of 
them from a painful embarrassment, but the compliment brought 
a grateful flush to his cheeks. He had the sense to feel that any 
reply he could make on the spur of the moment to such words from 
such a quarter would be only commonplace and inane, and he con- 
tented himself with thanking the speaker by a grateful look, which 
confirmed the justice of the earl’s opinion. 

” Now,” pursued the latter, ” to return to my explanation; we 
will, for the present, leave Mr. Sontag to nurse his suspicions, base 
as they are. You see that the step 1 took just now was hardly one 
about which 1 could fairly consult you, because you would have 
been placed in a very delicate position. It was clearly my duty to 
relieve myself at the earliest possible moment from any further re- 
sponsibility for the imputations which had been publicly leveled at 
your father in my name, though without my consent.” 

” My lord, it was very generous; it w’as all 1 could have asked or 
wished.” 

” It was only right, George, and that deserves no credit; though, 
as the world is going in this selfish, over-cultured age, the simple 
right is getting so rare as to have more credit than it deserves.” 

” The only thing that struck me about it,” said George Barton, 
” was, that this proceeding brings you into direct conflict with 
Pollard & Pollard, or at least precipitates a rupture. 1 thought 
that perhaps it might have been as w^ell to see them first, and give 
them some intimation of your intentions.” 

” I thought of that, too,” said the earl, “ and there was much to 
be said in favor of that course; but ,l concluded that the bolder 
policy was the better —to defy them first and see them afterward. 
They will take it 1 have resolved to brave every disclosure; and 
that will make them very uncomfortable, especially if our suspicions 
are correct, for a guilty conscience is a timid one.” 

” What I fear,” said George Barton, ” is our losing our control 
over the grave events to which we are all hurrying. If Sontag 
should prematurely fix his suspicion on them, and take action, 
nothing could prevent you from being mixed up in the business, 
and, at all events, from having the arrangement with the countess 
brought to light before you have taken steps to settle it.” 

” 1 can hardly bare to think of it,” cried the earl. ” Disclosure 
seems inevitable. AVhat can 1 do? My position is more critical 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


ITS 

than ever. The American bonds are lost; 1 must make them ^^ood, 
besides payin^i; off my sister’s mortgage, and returning her money.” 

” Would it not be best to try and get the arrangement prepaied 
by my lather carried through at once, before any other steps are 
taken? 1 understood that he had been introduced by the Pollards 
to a banker who agreed to find the money!” 

“Yes. Hackluyt, the Dutch banker.” 

“And,” continued George Barton, “ Hackluyt consented to lend 
a large sum on the mortgage of the Kensington Estate?” 

“ Yes— £100,000, which was more than was wanted to clear us, 
as we have paid up out of other funds the £50,000 to release the 
countess’s bonds. We expected another £50,000 from the sale of the 
Stockton shares; but now you see the bonds nave vanished!” 

“True; but the certificates of the shares can be produced; the 
loss of the bonds is, 1 fear, irremediable. Well, my lord, you only 
owe the countess now £50,000 lor her cash advance. You require 
another £50,000 to clear her Linton mortgage; and you must give 
your brokers an order tobu^ £55,000 of the United States Loan to 
replace her bonds, telling her frankly, but simply, that her own 
have been lost or mislaid. That will take £60,000 more. My father 
told me the bankers who were advancing the money would readily 
have doubled the sum on that estate of yours, with you as mort- 
gagor.” 

“ So he told me. Hackluyt, it seems, controls a vast capital for 
Dutch and ether Continental capitalists, and is always looking out 
for good English investments.”’ 

“ I’hen, my lord, 1 would venture to advise you to see him before 
seeing the Pollards. Explain that your agent is no more, that you 
wish the business concluded and the money paid immediately, and 
say you are prepared to accept £160,000. His solicitors, Knox. 
Masterman & Bullen, a very high-class firm, have already examined 
the title.” 

“But,” said the earl, “the mortgage-deed prepared between 
them and your father is lying ready at Pollards’, or ought to be, 
for my signature.” * 

“ Those fellows will throw all sorts of difficulties in your w’ay, 
and will refuse to give it up. Hackluyt’s solicitors can easily prepare 
a new deed for the larger sum, and when you have authorized him 
to direct them to do so, Pollard will see the uselessness of trying to 
stop it. Happily the banker is not, as they had led you at first to 
believe, their own client, so that you are freer to act. Fortunately, 
also, the title-deeds are at the Caledonian Bank, which lent you the 
money on Linton. You have only to instruct Hackluyt to pay oft 
that charge and take them over, releasing Linton at once and abso- 
lutely. Thus you see you are really, so far as that arrangement is 
concerned, practically independent of Pollard & Pollard; and if 
Hackluyt, as 1 don’t doubt he will, only increases the amount of 
bis loan, you will be able to snap your fingers at them. That once 
arranged, a good deal of their power is gone, and we are free to at- 
tack them on the graver matters.” 

“ Admirable!” cried the earl. “ Your head is as clear as a dia- 
mond. I will see Hackluyt, whom 1 once met, this afternoon, and 
then go on to Pollards’. But here we are at Tilbury’s. 1 will get 


174 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


them to give us an early lunch, and you will allow me to place this 
carriage at your disposal to go and meet your mother, to wliom 3 ’ou 
must express my sincerest sympath 3 ^ Blanche will take her a 
message Iron! me this afternoon.” 

******* 

At about half past one o’clock Mr. Garbett entered the spacious- 
hail of that old mansion, now No. 155 Lincoln’s Inn Fields, which 
was occupied by the great firm oi Pollard & Pollard. At the side 
of the hall a member of the cor ps of conimissionnaires sat, boxed up 
in a glass case, with a sliding pane in front of him, which admitted 
of a parley with visitors. On the wall oirtside the case, but in view 
of the porter, was a frame exhibiting the names of the solicitors and 
of the head clerks of the various departments, with sliding-boards 
opposite to each name, on which were the words “m ” or ” out.” 
The word ” out ” was visible, at that moment against the name of 
both the principals of the firm. 

The detective took all this in at a glance, but, with his pleasantest 
manner, said, 

•‘M. Pollard?” 

” Which one, sir?” 

“ Either.” 

” Both out, sir. Your name, sir, please?” 

” You’re not going to charge me for asking the question, 1 hope?” 
said Mr. Garbett, with a facetious air. 

‘‘No, sir; but I want to keep my register correct.” 

‘‘ Very well, then, you can put down the name of Garbett, on 
business from the Detective Department, Scotland Y"ard.” 

Mr. Garbett, as he said this, looked round as if he had conie to 
take possession of the premises. The co?n?msszo?i?iai7’es have a sort 
of fellow-feeling tor the police, probably because the}’ are a uni- 
formed force. The porter being, moreover, like every one in the 
otfice, on the gin vim about IMr. I3arton, who was well known by 
sight to most of the clerks, and well thouaht of by them because of 
his gentlemanly bearing and kindly manners, opened the door of his 
glass box and emerged, with curiosity in his face. 

‘‘ Have you got any news, sir?” he said, in a sort of confidential 
whisper. 

” News about what, my friend? 1 didn’t come here to see you.” 

The words were rough, but Mr. Garbett’s head was on one side, 
and his face was cunningly good-natured. 

” Well,” said the porter, smiling,” about poor Mr. Barton, you 
know, sir?” 

” Did you know him?” 

” Yes. As nice a gentleman as ever entered the office— always- 
pleasant and smooth-spoken.” 

” Well, we have news of him,” said Mr. Garbett. 

” Lor’ bless my soul. Y"ou don’t say so now? Where is he?” 

” Did he come here often?” Mr. Garbett meant to have pay for 
each particular item of information conveyed in an item from the 
other side. 

“Very freijuent of late, sir. W ell, now, to think of that! So 
you’ve found — ” 


A ^VEEK OF PASSIOX. 175 

“Yes,” interrupted ]\Ir. Garbett, “he’s in kingdom come, poor 
fellow. By the wa}", Mr. — ah! yes— what’s 3 'our name?” 

“ Battersby. ’’ 

“Ah! Battersby!” Mr. Garbett fixed the name in his tenacious 
memory. “ Hum! 1 believe, IMr. Battersby, he was here, your 
people have informed us, the very day before he disappeared?” 

“ 1 can tell you, sir,” said the willing porter, supposing he was 
only doing his duty in giving information to a Scotland Yard gen- 
tleman, “it’ll be down in my booh.” He brought out his book, 
with an endless list of names entered day by day for almost every 
minute of the day, and running down the pages with his finger 
arrived at “ 3.35, Mr. Barton.” 

“ Here it is, sir,” he said; “ Wednesday, the 25th — the very last 
time he was in this office.” 

“ He did not call on Thursday, now?” 

“No sir. Y’’ou can see for yourself.” 

Mr. Garbett saw for himself. 

Mr. Garbett having got his new acquaintance into a gossiping 
humor, stood there chatting and asking him a number of questions, 
the purport of which will appear hereafter. Meantime the commis- 
sionnaire had resumed his seat, and was dotting down the names of 
the people who were coming and going. 

“ So he’s dead, sir,” he said to Mr. Garbett, who stood at the 
open door of his crystal den. “ Poor man, how did he die?” 

“ You know the ‘ Regent Circus mystery?’ — that’s Mr. Barton.” 

Mr. Battersby manifested his astonishment by a gaping speech- 
lessness. 

“ Yes, Mr. Battersby— gone off like a firework — a human squib - 
Mr. Battersby — such is life, sir; such is life!” 

“ Ay,” said Battersby, shaking! is head and catching the infection 
of commonplace sentiment, “ we never know whether we are in life 
or in death.” 

There was a curious movement in Mr. Garbett’s large globes, it 
was impossible tor them to twinkle. 

“ 1 won’t discuss that last sentiment with you,” he said. “ But, 
tell me: is there no one in the office 1 can see on this business?” 

“ 1 don’t know, sir. Mr. Kelk, the chief clerk’s door, is up that 
corridor on tlje right. Or, w^hy don’t 3 mu go directly upstairs to 
the principals’ rooms and ask in the outer office? See Mr. Gray- 
son.” 

This was exactly what Mr. Garbett wanted. 

“ Mr. I beg your pardon?” 

“ Grayson.” 

“ Grayson? Very good.” 

Mr. Garbett proceeded upstairs and entered the outer office, where 
Mr. Grayson was anchored, as usual, at his desk, and two other 
clerks were scratching away. 

i\Ir. Grayson was rather startled when he saw the detective, wiiose 
visit he considered to be distinctly inopportune, and in violation of 
solemn pact. But Mr. Garbett, not seeming to notice him, took oft 
his hat and addressed a junior clerk. 

“Mr. Gra 3 ’’son?” 

The old man took the cue, and replied, 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


176 


“lam Mr. Grayson, sir.” 

“Oh! Beg pardon. I was referred to you down-slairs by the 
porter for information when 1 could see either of your principals on 
business of pressing importance? Mr. Gar belt, sir, from the 
Detective Department, Scotland Yard, business relating to the dis- 
appearance of Mr. George Barton.” 

“ Unfortunately, sir, they are both out. Mr. Charles has gone 
down to his country-house — we are expecting him soon ; Mr. Joseph 
may be in any minute. Perhaps you will step into the waiting- 
room?” 

And Mr. Grayson opened a door, motioned to Mr. Garbett to 
enter, and, following him in, closed it again. 

The detective’s face immediately relaxed. He smiled and held 
out his hand. 

“ How d’ye do, Mr. Grayson? Wasn’t that well done? Why, 
you’re a trump, man! Y'ou ought to have been a detective; your 
face was a masterpiece!” 

Mr. Grayson shook hands, but the detective saw that his response 
to this cheery greeting was far from effusive— in fact, was positively 
constrained; for Mr. Grayson had been thinking a good deal over 
that first interview with the detective, and, though he had spent 
that ten pounds, it had somehow left a bitter flavor in his mouth. 

“ Did you wish to see me?” he said. “ 1 — 1 thought it was ar- 
ranged that you would communicate with me by letter? And, by 
the way, you said your name was Dillon!” 

“ So it was, my honorable friend,” replied ihe detective, coolly; 
“to-day it is Garbett, and ] did not come to see you, but your 
principals — with a letter which requires answering — and 1 mean to 
wait for the answer;, but, as 1 was referred to you below, and no 
one knows of any communication between us, there can be no harm 
in our improving the shining hour — eh? — as 1 want an item or two 
of information— quite unimportant— you needn’t be alarmed. Don’t 
tell me anything you don’t like, you know. I’ve got a letter here 
asking for a list of those documents that disappeared with Mr. Bar- 
ton; of course only one of the partners could give that to me.” 

“ Yes. We know nothing about it out here. There’s been a 
good deal of trouble about them. But, to tell you the truth, we all 
think there’s been some mistake. Mr. Kelk, our chief clerk, was 
saying to me onl.y this morning that he didn’t believe Mr. Barton 
ever ran away with those papers. Mr. Kelk knows what they are.” 

“ But of course you know they’ve been found?” 

Mr. Garbett, as he said this, peered sharply at Grayson. 

“Found!” cried Grayson, witb so evident an astonishment that 
Mr. Garbett was satisfied. “What! Have you discovered them, 
then?” 

“Do you mean to say,” said Mr. Garbett, “that Mr. Kelk did 
not know of it?” 

“ Certain he didn’t, or he would not have spoken as he did. He 
was in here only an hour ago, and we were gossiping about it.” 

“ Why, Mr Grayson!” said Mr. Garbett, suddenly planting him- 
self in front of the clerk, with his hands on his hips, and fixing him 
with his enormous eyes— “ why, Mr. Gra 3 ^son, the chief commis- 
sioner has had a letter from Messrs. Pollard & Pollard within the 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 


m 

last two hours stating that those papers were found, here, in this 
office, only this morning, mislaid or overlooked on your senior’s 
table!” 

Grayson’s under- jaw dropped, and he gazed at Mr. Garbett with 
an expression of puzzled astonishment. He could not speak for a 
moment or two, and the detective, continuing to scrutinize his face 
sharply, could see that apprehension, doubt, suspicion, were follow- 
ing upon surprise. Mr. Grayson was evidently recalling and piec- 
ing together things that had happened under his eyes, and it was 
clear that, whatever the thoughts which resulted trom this rapid 
ratiocination, they troubled him. He was of too poor a mental fiber 
to hide his anxiety or his curiosity. 

“ A letter saying they have found the papers?” said he. 

” Certainl}’^— on the table of one of the firm.” 

Grayson said nothing by way of comment on this statement, but 
Mr. Garbett did not require that he should say anything, for it was 
plain enough that the clerk regarded the statement with incredulity. 
However, Grayson made a feeble effort to diplomatize. 

‘‘You see,” he said, ‘‘ all that business is extra-confidential, and 
none of us knows much about it.” 

” Oh, it’s all right,” cried Mr. Garbett, cheerily. ‘‘ In such a big 
'business as yours, papers must very often go astray. But, as they 
were found here, of course Mr. Barton brought them here.” 

‘‘ No doubt. He took a large bag of papers into Mr. Joseph’s 
room — let’s see— it was yesterday week— but such a bagful as that, 
of course, couldn’t get mislaid.” 

‘‘ No; but did he leave the whole bagful?” 

‘‘ He must have done. The bag was crushed up under his arm 
empty when he went away.” 

” Ah! well, then, it was only a part of them, no doubt, that the 
advertisement alluded to.” 

Mr Grayson was reflecting. 

“It’s strange,” he said. ‘‘1 never knew any valuable papers 
mislaid in this office before. Everything is regularly docketed and 
kept in its place.” 

“Oh! but in a big business liKe this papers accumulate— briefs, 
deeds, and so on — eh? I know the sort of thing— tables piled up 
with them.” 

“ Our business is so large that we can’t do it in that way. There 
is a place for everything, and everything in its place. The partners’ 
tables are cleared every evening of everything not directly in hand. 
The reason 1 am bothered about it is that 1 am the one who is to 
blame if theie has been any oversight, for I attend to that duty.” 

“ Ah! Mr. Grayson, Mr. Grayson, you’re getting old. You have 
overlooked them,” said Mr. Garbett, with a facetious leer at the 
clerk. 

“ No,” said old Grayson, who was obstinate in his conceit of his 
own impeccability, “ it is not possible. Mr. Charles must have 
locked them up in his desk by mistake, and turned them out this 
morning.” 

The detective was perfectly satisfied to learn this much, and he 
did not push inquiry on this point any further. Mr. Barton had 
brought a big bag, full of papers, which, in Mr. Grayson’s opinion. 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


ITS 

it was impossible to have nhslairi in any case, and Mr. Grayson 
vouched for the tact that they could not have been overlooked in the 
partners’ rooms in the manner suggested in their letter to the chief 
commissioner. 

At this point one of the junior clerks put his head in at the door, 
tind said, 

“ Mr. Grayson, the senior’s come in.” 

The old clerk started, and, begging the detective to wait, went to 
announce him to Mr. Joseph Pollard. Evidently the solicitor did 
not regard the visit with gratification, for he turned paler than he 
was l)y nature, and before he had collected himself the words had 
escaped him in a sharp and querulous voice, 

“ What does he want? We have written them fully.” but, re-ad- 
vising himself, be said, ” well, show him in, Mr. Gray-son.” 

The detective, as he came in, being on the lookout, surprised an 
anxious glance at him from behind Mr. Pollard’s but the 

solicitor put on an easy manner, and invited him to take a seat. 
This Mr Garbett did, after deliberately taking out of bis breast- 
pocket a huge pocket- Dook, unwinding a yard or two of what looked 
like black shoestring, and extracting a letter, which lie handed in 
silence to the solicitor. 

Breaking it open with a nervous hand, ]\Ir. Pollard ran his eyes 
rapidly over the two pages, and Mr, Garbett saw that he changed 
color. His lace flushed hot, and became very pale again. He ap- 
preciated in a moment the fine, -ironic flavor of Mr. Sontag’s epistle, 
and his queasy conscience felt a sickening sense of peril; for ^ 
independent action of the earl was so sharp a slap in the face, . 
so clearly inconsistent with the line assumed by him — Joseph Polla*.. 
— in his letter to the chief commissioner, and, moreover, the demand 
to see the papers alleged to have been lost was so odd and so suspi- 
cious that he could hardly sit quiet in his chair, and had the great- 
est difficulty in the world in preserving a semblance of composure. 
And there was the uncomfortable figure of Mr. Garbett perched on 
the edge of the seat, his head on one side in his favorite attitude, 
and his huge, glassy eyeballs staring at him. To keep himself in 
countenance he reread the letter, this time very slowly. Then he 
looked over his glasses at Mr. Garbett, who, meantime, had been 
satisfying himself by a glance round the room that Mr. Gray-son 
had told him the truth, and that the “ vast quantity of law-papers ” 
alleged to be lying in the room of the senior partner was apocryphal. 
A large number of briefs on a table in the center of the rooni were 
arranged in the most perfect order, and a glance showed that it was 
hardly possible to mislay any considerable bulk of papers amid that 
careful array of documents. 

“Tour name is — ?” inquired Mr. Pollard. 

‘‘ Stated in the letter, sir— Garbett, of the Detective Department.” 

You are aware of the contents of this letter?” 

Mr. Sontag read it to me before placing it in my hands.” 

The solicitor was eying the detective very closely, and the latter, 
accustomed to reading all the little signs of nervousness and anx- 
iety in the faces of men who were fencing with him, saw very 
clearly that, beneath the practiced calm of Mr. Joseph Pollard s 
manner, there was a profound emotion and disquiet. j\lr. Garbett 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 179 

never took those large globes of liis, with their glassy stare, from 
the solicitor’s face for an instant. 

“ H’m!” said Mr. Pollard, clearing his throat, affected by a sud- 
den dryness, while he tried to get up a smile, which, however, was 
a dismal failure, and continuing to watch Mr, Gaibett wdth a sus- 
picious side glance, which the other fully appreciated. “ You 
seem to have jumped to a conclusion very rapidly with regard to 
Mr. Barton’s— a — fate.” 

The detective, though the solicitor paused here, evidently expect- 
ing some remark, remained silent, motionless, always staring. 

Mr. Pollard began to feel irritated by this imperturbable attitude 
—precisely the effect Mr. Garbelt wished to produce, as experience 
had shown him that an angry man was likely to make some move- 
ment which would disclose the weakness of his game. 

”1 remarked,” said Mr. Pollard, raising liis voice, ‘‘ that your 
Department seem to have arrived at a conclusion about Mr. Barton’s 
fate which appears to be very improbable and hasty. What proof 
have you got of this?” 

A mighty movement of all the lower part of Mr. Garbett’s face 
indicated a sort of derisive pity for Mr. Pollard, if he really sup- 
posed that a detective was going to answer such a question as that. 
He simply said, 

” There is no doubt about it, sir, from information which we have 
received. You see your own client has no doubt about it,” 

This was straight out from the shoulder, and damaged the solici- 
tor badly. 

“ So 1 see,” replied Mr. Pollard, quickly, ” but what is the nat- 
ure of the information?” His voice and manner were a little eager. 

Mr. Garbett smiled his most engaging smile, which was indeed 
terrible. 

” For the present, Mr. Pollard, of course, that is a secret.” 

” What? to us, Mr. Garbett, who are interested— who have given 
you the instructions?” 

” Beg pardon, Mr. Pollard; 1 understood your instructions w^ere 
withdrawn.” 

” Well— of course— in a sense— that is so. Acting to the best of 
our judgment— on behalf of our client— w'e wrote you that letter 
this morning. It appears that— probably having received some un- 
expected information — our client has peVsonally given directions in 
the sense conveyed by this letter; but of course w'e are still acting 
as his solicitors, and we ought to be informed of all that is going 
on, because we may be able to help you materially in elucidating 
this — suicide, 1 suppose it was, it indeed it should turn out to be 
true.” 

” It is not a suicide, Mr. Pollard,” said Garbett, his huge eyeballs 
seeming to glow like the lamps of a railway engine. ” It w'as be- 
yond all question— a murder,. sir!” It was impossible for Mr. Pol- 
lard to repress a shiver at the word. ” May I ask, sir, whether you 
have seen your noble client this morning?” 

” Really, Mr. Garbett,” said the solicitor, putting on a severe air 
of rebuke to the impudence of the detective, ” I fear you forget, sir, 
whom you are addressing! I don’t suppose the chief commissioner 
sent you here to cross-examine us about our private business. You 


180 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


will excuse me from answering such a question, and we will keep, 
if you please, strictly to the matter in hand.” 

” The matter in hand, Mr. Pollard,” said Mr. Garbett, inclining 
his head a little more on one side, ‘‘ is the discovery of the murderers 
of Mr. George Barton, for which £2000 reward has been offered by 
your client, the Earl of Selby, of which 1 am determined, if 1 can, 
to get a snare. Any question which tends to throw light on that 
crime is relevant, and, as you claim to be acting with us in this 
matter, we assume that you will give us every facility for obtaining 
full information. My question, which you take as an impertinence, 
was meani as nothing of the kind. It arose out of your own state- 
ment. You said that, in withdrawing your charge against Mr. Bar- 
ton, and informing us that you took no further part in the investiga 
tion as to this gentleman's fate— with w^hom, by the bye, we are 
well aware that you have lately been conducting some very impor- 
tant negotiations ” — Mr. Pollard’s eyebrow winced slightly, and 
the movement was duly noted — ” you w'ere acting on behalf of and 
by instructions from the Earl of Selby. Well, sir, after your letter 
arrived, the Earl of Selby came to Scotland Yard, and gave direc- 
tions exactly the reverse of those contained in 5 mur letter, and I 
simply ask you whether your client had seen you, in order to give 
you an opportunity of explaining,” 

“Which 1 must peremptorily decline to do!” said Mr. Pollard, 
shortly and hotly. “ 'i:ou appear, sir, to be exceeding your instruc- 
tions, and we shall complain to the chief commissioner about your 
conduct.” 

“ As you please, Mr. Pollard,” said Mr. Garbett, with provoking 
coolness, “ but, in the meantime, my specific instructions are to 
wait for a list of those documents, and not to return to Scotland 
Yard without it.” 

“ There, again,” said Mr. Pollard, getting more and more irritat- 
ed, “ I am unable to oblige you. The docunmnts are private docu- 
ments belonging to our client; they have nothing to do with your 
inquiries, anil, now that they are found, there is no longer any 
necessity for troubling any one about them.” 

“ That is not the opinion of my chief, Mr. Pollard. You see you 
offered, in your advertisement, to show a list of those documents, 
and we ought to liave asked for it before. Now that we know that 
Mr. Barton has been murdered, and that those documents relate to 
the business which was occupying him in London, and which he 
was engaged in with gentlemen who one day accuse him of running 
away with them, and the next day find them on their office-table, 
you must see, Mr. Pollard, that we have some ground for inquiring 
that was the nature of the papers.” 

“ 1 see nothing of the kind!” said Mr. Pollard. “The demand 
seems to me to be quite irregular. In any case I should not accede 
to it without referring to our client and consulting my partner, who 
is absent; and I must furlhcr tell you, sir, that your manner of 
speaking to me is distinctly impertinent, and I decline to have any 
more to say to you!” 

Mr. Garbett rose, calm, always imperturbably staring. 

“You refuse to allow me to see those papers, Mr. Pollard?” 

“ Most decidedly.” 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 181 

“ You will not furnish the Department with a list and description 
of them?” 

” As present advised, certainly not,” 

‘‘You must not be surprised, then, sir, if my chiefs, knowing 
what they do, draw unfavorable conclusions as to jmur conduct, i 
have only done my duty. Good-morning, sir.” 

‘‘ They may draw any conclusions they like,” said Mr. Pollard, 
furious. ‘‘ We don’t require to be instructed by the police either 
as to the law or our duty,” 

As luck would have it, jusi as Mr. Garbett turned to the door b}'- 
which he had entered, and Mr. Joseph Pollard, who had risen to 
deliver the last shot with considerable heat, had turned to his desk 
again, another door opened at the side ot the room, and Mr. Charles 
Pollard entered, saying, 

‘‘ It’s all right. 1 have them !” 

He carried a bag in his hand. His uncle put up his finger to his 
lips, and Mr. Garbett, whose back was to the speaker, .wheeled 
round instantly and faced him. He had seen Mr. Charles on two 
previous instances at Scotland Yard. The junior partner started 
when he saw him, but nodded, and said, 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Garbett.” while he looked at his uncle as if 
to inquire the motive of the detective's visit. 

Mr. Joseph Pollard w’as on thorns; tor he had an instinctive feel- 
ing that the detective was suspicious, and if he remained it was just 
possible, since Mr. Charles Pollard knew nothing of the change in 
the state of affairs which had taken place during his absence, that 
something might be dropped of a compromising character. So he 
said, quickly taking up the chief commissioner’s letter and thrust- 
ing it under his nephew’s eyes, while he gave him a meaning look, 

” Mr, Garbett’s business is concluded. 1 have given him our an- 
swer. Good-morning, sir,” he said again, significantly, to the de- 
tective. 

But Garbett did not stir. 

‘‘ 1 am glad to have seen you, sir,” he said, addressing Mr. Charles 
Pollard, ‘‘ because all our communications in regard to this business 
have been with you. I should just like to be assured, before 1 re- 
turn to make my report to the chief commissioner, whether you are 
of the same mind as your partner in refusing the information we 
ask for?” 

While Garbett was speaking, Mr. Charles Pollard’s eye was run- 
ning over the startling letter from Mr. Soutag. He glanced up at' 
his senior inquiringly. Tho latter was flushed, and obviously ill at 
ease. He turned again to Mr, Garbett: 

“ You have your answer, Mr. Garbett; we will write the chief 
commissioner a letter in reply to this.” 

Mr, Charles nodded. He comprehended his uncle’s anxiety, and 
his own could hardly be concealed, 

‘‘ Yes — M i. Garbett— my partner’s answer is mine.” 

The detective said no more, and retired. His eyes wandered 
curiously over the bag w'hich Mr. Charles Pollard had brought in 
his hand, and the contents of which he had designated in the plural 
as “them.” An idea went through the detective’s brain. On his 
way out he nodded to his friend the commissionnaire, and having got 


182 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


as far as the steps, turned back into the kali, opened the door of the 
glass box, and premising — 

“ By the way, 1 forgot to ask them upstairs— there is so much to 
lliink of " — obtained some further information regarding the move- 
ments of Mr. Barton. 

Upstairs, when Garbett had left the room, the two miserable men 
looked at each other with startled eyes and haggard faces. They 
begiin to feel that they were being gradually. surrounded by an non 
cage, which, like that horrible chamber in Poe’s story, was closing 
up tighter and tighter, and threatening to crush them. 

Charles Pollard had come back rather light-hearted at the clever- 
ness of his latest move — the reproduction of the missing documents. 
This would divert all suspicion from them, r ud, in addition, give 
them a powerful leverage over the earl, to whom it was a matter of 
vital interest to have those papers. To get them out of their hands, 
he must either accept their terms, or resort to proceedings very com- 
promising to hiraselt. He must begin — Mr. Charles Pollard chuckled 
to himself as he thought of it — by telling the story of his own dis- 
grace to some respectable solicitors, who would be sure to advise 
him at any cost to come to an arrangement. But Mr. Charles Pol- 
lard’s fine air castles tumbled all to pieces in his brain as soon as 
his eyes had raced over that nasty letter of Mr. fcontag’s. The earl 
had {hrown them over with cook exasperating indifference; almost 
any conceivable move they could make against him would Ire peril- 
ous for them ; that they saw and appreciated with the clearness of 
guilty consciences excited by danger to moi’bid sensibility. By some 
mysterious means the police had arrived at the fact that the victim 
of Regent Circus and George Barton, the elder, were one; and there 
was an underlining of menace in Mr. Soniag’s prose which they did 
not fail to perceive. To make such a request, to write in such terms 
to a firm like Pollard & Pollard, was in itself significant. The clever 
card they had played was evidently trumped; was there any other 
good card in their hand? 

The senior, having dropped the glasses from his nose, had thrown 
himself into his chair, his hands deep down in his trousers pockets, 
his brow knitted, his lips tightly compressed, his chin on his breast, 
a picture of despair. Charles Pollard hardly dared to look at him, 
for he felt his own courage and impudence oozing out at the ends 
of his fingers. Neither liked to break the silence, and they could 
almost hear the throbbing of each others’ hearts. 

Charles at length said — his voice was only just above a W'hisper — 

" What was that fellow doing here?” 

“ What was he doing here?” cried Joseph Pollard, in a strange, 
loud, strident voice. ” He was trying to get evidence against you 
and me, Charles Pollard, for the murder of George Barton!” 

“Hush — h — h!” said Charles Pollard, alarmed not only by the 
old man’s tone, but by his manner, he seemed so desperate and ex- 
cited. “you might be overheard.” 

“ What does it matter?” replied the other, fiercely, though he 
lowered his tone. “We are suspected, and in a few hours we may 
be accused. 1 knew it w'ould be so — 1 knew it would be sol” 

“ Well, Mr. Pollard,” said the other, sharply, “ will you at least 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK'. 


183 

let me know what took place, and enable me to form an opinion 
about it?” 

” Oh, yes,” replied the other, wearily, “I’ll tell you, Charles, 
and much good may it do you!” 

He related the interview with all his practiced exactitude. iS^ot a 
word escaped; for was not every syllable that had been uttered 
burned into his brain? 

It certainly did not appear to do much good to Charles Pollard, 
for his face became longer and paler as his uncle proceeded. 

“ We must send on the list immediately,” said the nephew, when 
his uncle had finished. 

The elder shrugged his shoulders. He seemed quite paralyzed 
and indiderent. 

” Do anything you like,” he said. “ It does not much matter.” 

“At least,” said Charles Pollard, in a low voice, as he quietly 
locked the door leading to the clerks’ room — “ at least it will give us 
time if we decide upon bolting.” 

He hoped to prick up the old man’s energies by this hint. And 
he succeeded. 

“ It is our only hope,” said Joseph Pollard, raising his head and 
speaking more firmly. “ Is the 3'acht ready?” 

“ Quite. 1 told Yates to order the fires to be kept up, and have 
the captain and crew all r^ady on board. We shall clear for Havre, 
but we will cut straight across for Montevideo. It is lucky 1 sent 
that money to Paris. And 1 have about five ihousand on board in 
a sate place.” 

“We ought to leave to-night — to-night, Charlie. Mark my words, 
■we have not a moment to spare. I'ou should have seen how that 
fellow looked at me. Did you ever watch an engine with two lights 
coming up on the underground railway? You fancy for a long ticne 
the.y are stationary, and by and by you become conscious they are 
coming — coming — coming — nearer. 1 have often thought what a 
horrible fascination they must have for a suicide who is waiting for 
them. Well, 1 thought of that while that wretch was looking at 
me— there— sitting— staring like a basilisk. By G — , Charlie, 1 can’t 
stand it any longer; we’ll be off — to-night, Charlie — to night!” 

Joseph Pollard’s own eyes seemed to be starting from his head, 
and the sweat was reeking on his brow. 

* * * -Sf * * * 

Garbett, lounging along the pavement outside, spoke to a seedy- 
looking person who was hanging about by the railings opposite No. 
155, and to a tall, gentlemanly-looking man who appeared to he 
similarly unoccupied. Having satisfied himself that the house was 
being w^atched as well from the back, where a room, looking into 
the yard of No. 155, had that morning been hired by a supposed 
agent and his clerk, he stationed himself at the Little Turnstile, 
leading from the Fields into Holborn, to wait for Mr. Grayson, 
■w’hom he had invited to lunch. While he was curiously examining 
some specimens of engraving in the window of a “ Heraldic office ” 
at the corner, but at the same time keeping his eyes about him, a 
person came through the narrow passage from Holborn who attract- 
ed his attention. This was a tall, fashionably-dressed man, faultless 


184 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


as to tailorina and general “ get-up,” but whose air and swagger at 
once revealed to the experienced eye of Mr. Garbett a jackdaw ia 
peacock’s plumes— a ” flash” aristocrat. He turned round suddenly 
and faced this person, whose evil face, vulgarized by drink and de- 
bauch, pulled cheeks, bloodshot eyes, and fuitive, uneasy glances, 
indicated at once a roue, a man about town, and a being with a 
cowardly conscience. The shade fo bluish-red in this man’s cheek 
and nose deepened as his eye crossed that of the detective, and each 
threw at the other that glance of subjective recognition which re- 
sults from a desire on either side not to betray itself. As the portent- 
ous globes of Mr. Garbett turned and remained fixed on his face, 
the man almost instinctively halted an instant, and then, as if he had 
simply stopped to chanee his foot, he went on along the w’all of 
Lincoln’s Inn with an affected swagger of nonchalance. 

The detective turned and looked after him, his face wearing for 
an instant or two a puzzled expression; then suddenly a light flashed 
in his eyes, a sardonic smile wrinkled the sheathing of his huge jaw, 

‘‘ Captain Yates!” he said to himself. ” The fellow we so nearly 
nabbed in that Colorado silver-mine business and the Melton Club case 
— as thorough a swindler and blackleg as widks the streets of Lon- 
don. That gentleman is so near the edge of criminal culpability that 
it wouldn’t require a single stride of his long legs to take him right 
over, if he hasn’t gone across on the sly already. By Jove! 1 never 
thought of it before! He is the very man to have arranged such a 
job as this for the Pollards. It’s very strange the idea should come 
into my head. "What is he doing down here, 1 wonder? Unfortu- 
nately he recognized me, and 1 can’t follow him up. Ha! precisely, 
sir; 1 thought you’d do that!” cried Mr. Garbett to himself, while 
he stood apparently still engaged in studying the heraldic ensigns 
which the ingenious firm of engravers had concocted for successful 
judges and barristers. 

The man, lounging slowly down the pavement, swinging his 
cane, had stopped at the great gate of Lincoln’s Inn, and, turning 
quickly, had cast a sly glance along the wall to see whether he was 
being observed or . followed. Mr. Garbett felt pins and needles 
pricking him all over and urging him to follow the captain, but a 
moment’s reflection showed him it would be quite futile. He was 
known to the man, and the approaching interview with Grayson 
was too important to be given up for a mere fishing expedition. 

“No matter,” he said to himself; ” 1 can find your address, my 
fine gentleman, and 1 shall put a man on* to watch you to-night. 
Ha! Mr. Grayson,” he said, in a low voice, without turning round, 
” don’t speak to me. Go on through the Turnstile to Izant’s, and 
I’ll follow you. The fellow’s probably got his eye on me still,” he 
said to himself. 

Had Garbett been able to put on the hat of Fortunatus and follow 
his man, he would have been astounded at his own remarkable in- 
tuition. The captain passed through Lincoln’s Inn, and turning 
back along Carey Street, took a careful squint up Serle Street to see 
whether his natural enemy was still in the horizon. Mr. Garbett 
had, however, disappeared. Crossing Serle Street, the captain held 
on his way to Clement’s Inn, and entering one of its dingy houses, 
climbed the stairs to a set of chambers under the tiles, on the outer 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


185 


floor of which was painted the indeterminate name of “ Mr. Smith.’' 
Thence a few minutes afterward a boy, of a sharp and hungry 
countenance, bore a letter, in a crested envelope, addressed by a bold 
but shaky hand to Mr. Charles Pollard, and marked, “ Pressing and 
Confidential.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE NOON OF LOVE HAS STRUCK. 

Mrs, Barton was a superior specimen of that vast class of su- 
perior women who are turned out of the much abused vicarages, 
rectories, and deaneries of England. The increase of the species is 
not the least useful of the good works performed by the clergy, as 
It is certainly by far the most successful. Were every clergyman 
called upon to produce for every child born in his house an individ- 
ual born again, in the evangelical sense, under his preaching, not a 
few might find it difficult tcTmatch the colossal tale of (he one by an 
adequate number of specimens of the other. But still he may hold 
up his head as one who has done much for the world, for out of 
these clerical homes there come forth troops of young men and 
women, cultured, well-bred, intelligent, laborious, accustomed to 
elegance of idea and economy of practice; in fact, when taken all 
together, constituting an immense and incalculably beneficent force 
in the midst of our social life. 

At almost every step in society one runs against men or Women, 
many of them eminent, most of them diligent and thoughtful 
workers, in every department wdiere thoughtful work and earnest 
humanity can find a field of action, who are children of the clergy. 
The success of clergymen’s sons at the universities, in all the profes- 
sions, in the public services, is patent and distinguished; and yet 1 
doubt whether a greater, wider, and more benignant influence does 
not emanate from tlie clergy homes of England, in the shape of the 
daughters who are trained in those wonderful schools of refinement 
and domestic economy. I think, it my reverend friends would not 
be shocked, and would not call that irreverent and profane in which 
there would be not the least irreverence or profanity, 1 could elabo- 
rate a much more unanswerable political and practical argument in 
favor of an established clergy, on the ground of the importance to 
the State of promoting the natural increase of a stock which is, 
morally and intellectually, of a high order, than Mr. Gladstone, for 
all his superb command of dialectic, ever compounded in defense 
of an established church. 

Mrs. Barton was not only in herself a lady of exceptional intelli- 
gence and strength of character, but she had had the supreme advant- 
age of having always lived in the society of distinguished people. 
Her father was the Dean of Dodchester; he had been head-master 
of Eton. Such a statement is enough in itself to signalize a world 
of eminent social and intellectual connections. Moreover, the dean 
owed his advancement, in no small degree, to the fact that he had 
been Lord Selby’s tutor at Oxford, and, in marrying his daughter, 
Mr. Barton had no doubt laid tlie foundation stone for the position 
he afterward held in the earl’s domestic polity. Mrs. Barton, there- 


186 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


fore, was at home in any society, and in all she made a very inter- 
esting figure, for she was lively, clever, instructed, some thought 
indeed a little of a blue-stocking, and her social tact was perfect — 
in saying which, quite a bundle of wonderful qualities is necessarily 
implied. Moreover, as 1 think 1 have already hinted, she was nat- 
urally ambitious. Young as she was at the time when her father 
was made a dean, she had the credit of having helped him to the 
advancement. In Mr. Barton she had to deal witn nmre solid 
stuff. Ilis ambition was a quiet, comfortable, intellectual, but un- 
ostentatious life, and “ a large family to keep one’s heart warm,” as- 
he used to say. Ihis ambition he managed to realize to perfection. 
George was the eldest of seven children, of tvhom five were sous. 
With him Mrs, Barton’s ambition lay down and slept. He was a 
man of so much character in himself, so full and round, with all 
the finer qualities of perfect manhood, that she felt it enough to 
have a kingdom in his heart; and that she had, for he dearly loved 
her. Their children had before them the example ot one of those 
wonderfully happy combinations and perfect dovetailings of char- 
acter which stands, in the tombola of wedlock, in the same relation 
to all the other numbers as the first prize in a great Dutch lottery — 
that is, in about the proportion of one to a million or so. 

Mrs. Barton visited with the county families around her, and, 
while the Countess of Selby lived, she was a familiar friend at the 
castle. Everywhere her perfect social tact enabled her to be at 
home, in the proudest and most distinguished society, without com- 
promising her indepeud(?nce, her candor, or her amour iwopre. 

When the Countess of Selby died, and her only daughter was left 
without a mother’s supervision, it was inevitable that Mrs. Barton 
should become a kind ot local tutoress and guardian to the mother- 
less girl whenever she was at Selby Castle. From the natural charm 
of her character, it almost followed as a matter of course that the 
young Lady Blanche should conceive a very deep affection for her; 
and this affection became so pronounced that, sensible and good- 
hearted as was her real substitute motner, the Countess of Tilbury, 
her ladyship could not help feeling nowand then just a little twinge 
of jealousy at the young lady’s preference. This, of course, is an 
appreciation due to the clairvoyance of an author; for the Countess 
of Tilbury was far too eminent a woman of the world to allow it to 
be even suspected by a human being not endowed with second sight 
that she was ever troubled by such a feeling as jealousy of the wife 
of her brother’s agent, however clever and that lady might 

be. This will serve partly, though not wholly, to explain that 
striking contrast ot manner and terms-between the messages given 
to George Barton for his mother by the countess and by Lady 
Blanche. The little differences in the minds of the two ladies about 
the messenger himself had no doubt the most to do with the dis- 
crepancy. 

Now, it was here, namely, in regard to the earl’s daughter, that 
the natural ambition of Mrs. Barton, bottled up so securely, and 
rendered air-tight and inevaporable by being capsuled with the seal- 
ing-wax of affection, found just a tiny and almost imperceptible 
vent. It was impossible that so sagacious a matron should not have 
discerned some faint signs of danger in George’s intimacy at the 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


187 


castle, in Lady Blanche’s intimacy at the manor. Mr. Barton was 
a keen observeV, too; and it is just "possible that he may have scented 
danger in the air, and that, to his other reasons for wishing to keep 
his son down to a simple life, was added the desire of placing him 
in a situation which would lorce him, were he in peril of conceiv- 
ing a hopeless and fatal affection, to suppress it. For Mr. Barton 
knew that, however eminent his son’s talents and success might be, 
such a passion would be an utteily insane one in the eyes of the 
Earl of Selby. The subject, then, was eschewed all round, though 
in the heart of the anxious mother there was a secret mixture of 
terror and desire in regard to the state of her son’s feelings. But, 
guessing the motives of her husband's policy, as her good-sense told 
her it was the only right and honorable one, she guarded lierself 
from ever, by the slightest liint, or by employing any of those re- 
fined tactics which are so simple to feminine ingenuity, saying or 
doing anything to encourage the movements in her son’s heart at 
which she had intuitively guessed. Happily, as she obseived. Lad}' 
Blanche herself anpeared utterly unconscious of any sentiment but 
regard for a clever and pleasant acquaintance, while George kept 
proudly clear of any manifestation of the state of his feelings, which 
was not so minute as to need the microscopic lenses of a mother’s 
love to detect it. 

Mrs. Barton had not flown to London at the first intimation which 
she received of her husband’s disappearance, because H had come 
upon her in so cruel a fashion as to prostrate her, bodily and men- 
tally, for three days, and her physician had confined her to her 
room. On the Thursday night George had not thought il right to 
send her the news; but on Friday the first act of Mr. Charles Pol- 
lard, when he had learned from the earl that Mr. Barton’s absence 
was noticed, had been to dispatch a telegram to Manor Calham in 
these terms: 

(Telegram.) 

Pollard & Pollard, 

{Solicitors, 155 Lin- to 

coin’s Inn Fields. 


Mrs. Barton, 
Manor Calham, 
by Selby, 

Y OlKS. 


Please wire immediately whether Mr. Barton is at home. Has 
disappeared with a large number of bonds and important papers. 
Earl is very anxious. Ileply paid. 


This cruel and dastardly intimation, w'hich the solicitors launched 
without any regard to the feelings of the poor victim, they had con- 
ceived and sent only as a clever piece of tactics. For Mrs. Barton 
it w'as more effective than a thunderbolt. It was many hours be- 
fore her tottering reason recovered its equilibrium, and then, incapa- 
ble of any physical exertion, she received from the doctor’s hands 
n milder and more hopeful message which her son had thoughtfully 
concocted; in which he begged her to try and keep up her faith and 
hope, as he was taidng all the necessary steps, and implored her not 
to leave the manor, on the ground, which George knew to be so 
specious, that his father might be suffering from overworked brain, 
and might direct his course to Selby. When the earl received the 
distracted Ictteis and telegrams which the poor lady dictated to him 


188 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


from her sick-bed, his natural kindness and chivalry led him to 
reply in reassuring terms, and George’s letters just afforded the 
anxious doctor ground for constructing ingenious theories to appease 
the anguish of his patient’s sorrow. She had enough perspicacity 
of judgment and strength of resolution left to urge the physician 
not to divert George’s attention from the supreme business of the 
moment by awakening his anxiety on her account, and thus she 
passed nearly three days of horror, incapable alike of thought and 
movement. 

Ov^er the meeting between the mother and son we draw a veil, if 
for no other reason, because the emotions of such a scene are purely 
beyond the resources of language, and would be beyond the appre- 
ciation even of the finest or most sensitive genius. They belong to 
regions so sacred that. the grandest poets and dramatists have never 
attempted to set foot in them, or if they have, struck with the 
awful and sacred solemnity of iho&e penetralia, they have checked 
their feet and retired with silent steps. Here and there some light 
fools may have tried to rush in where those angels feared to tread ; 
but the sorry futility of their efforts to paint that which manifests 
itself not alone in human speech, but in a mysterious spiritual lan- 
guage of emotion and passion, conveying its meaning from heart to 
heart in silent magnetic currents, along unseen chord, has only the 
more conspicuously pointed an imbecility so supreme as not even to 
be able to estimate the extent and limits of its own weakness. 

But George noted with horrified surprise, and with a frightful 
contraction of heart, the ravages which that hurricane of grief had 
left on the sweet and pleasing features of his mother. She was a 
brunette— he took after her — and her abundant and beautiful black 
hair, which had been the pride of her children, was now as white as 
snow. Her lively and expressive features were shrunken; the bright 
light in the deep brown eyes seemed to have been extinguished for- 
ever. 

The death of his father was a deep, irreparable sorrow. Still, it 
w^as a dread event completed — there was no aftermath of suffering 
for the loved one. Here, however, before him, was a melancholy 
ruin, with just enou.gh of its original life and beauty left to keep 
alive, as the Parthenon does for the Greek, perpetual emotions of 
grief and indignation. When the first sad hour of commingled sor- 
row, of mutual explanation, was over, and George Bart(»n began to 
look and look, and realize what this damnable crime had wrought 
upon this noble woman, the volcano of passion and wrath within 
his soul began to seethe and boil and glow with a fearful intensity. 
He lost all control of himself. So insupportable became his feelings 
that he broke away from his mother, and rushing to his chambers,, 
threw himself madly on the floor, and with wild contortions of rage, 
with oaths and execrations, loud, deep, and terrible, such as had 
never entered into his thoughts or soiled his lips, he vowed and 
reiterated his vows of vengeance. The pent-up passions of his soul 
found vent in frenzied ejaculations, and proved how vast were the 
forces which the restraints of love, education, and self-respect had 
hitherto held in check within this powerful being. 

Outside, the westering sun was playing upon the flow'ers and foli- 
age vrhich tilled his windows, and wliich were softly stirring with 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


189 


the inaudible breath of a summer zephyr. His two birds, pluming 
themselves in the sunny light, were singing in cheerful notes tbeir 
evening hymn. And along the surface of the broad river a golden 
splendor gleamed soft and heavenly, transfiguring the smoky faces 
of the time-worn monuments, of the dingy buildings, the gray front 
of Somerset House, the fretted towers of the palace at Westminster, 
the floating barges ana darting steamers, the long, curved, granite 
lines of the embankment, broken here and there by the massive 
silhouettes of the great bridges, and seemed to say that for all that 
is gloomy and evil and abject there is an hour of transformation and 
brightness. 

Of all this he, writhing in anguish, was unconscious. The carol 
of the birds and the joy of sunlight could not touch a heart which 
was ablaze with flames of wrath and vengeance. 

“Oh, mother! mother! mother! dear, dear mother! Oh, father! 
father! Damned and dastardly scoundrels who have done this hellish 
deed! Fiends! sons of Satan! whelps of hell! 1 curse and loathe 
you — all— all who have had any part in this foul crime, and all con- 
nected with them; 1 curse them, every soul of them, and all they 
love, and all the}" possess! May the fury and vengeance of God 
blast and destroy them, without one solitary exception!” 

And so on — a black and bloody current of fury, turbid, wild, un- 
restrained, whirling on resistless, hurling along, in its foaming 
breakers, the wu-ecks and ruins of all his hopes and affections; yes, 
even his love for Lady Blanche, hurtled, bruiseii, and inanimate, in 
that cruel torrent. He seemed to take a pleasure in battering and 
spurning it. In proportion to the intensity of his idolatry was the 
bitterness of his satisfaction in casting it away. It seemed to be a 
kind of sacrificial offering to the manes of the dead, to the ruins of 
the living. It was a love that was accursed, because it stood be- 
tw'een his heart, and justice and vengeance; because it had whis- 
pered of mercy, when it really involved a mean and cowardly trea- 
son to his father’s memory; because it would have paralyzed the 
arm that should strike with unflinching severity. She! She was 
the earl’s daughter; and in that dreadful hour the earl was the 
vilest of the criminals. His wrong, his paltry interests of pride and 
selfishness and fortune, had led to this sacrifice of two noble creat- 
ures. His agents had done the deed, and every living soul connected 
with him was to George Barton’s disordered mind an accomplice in 
the crime. 

Had the earl come in at that moment he would have killed him, 
and human justice would have struck him down for the commis- 
sion of an act he could no more have controlled than he could the 
four winds of heaven. 

No lay of moral or material light could penetrate such darkness 
as that. Amid the roar of such a lorrent, and the thunder, and the 
blasting play of lightning, even an angel's voice must surely be un- 
heard; an angel’s face, how'ever near, remain unseen! 

flow long this transport lasted he was quite unconscious. 

Suddenly he became aw"are that there was some one at the en- 
trance of his room. In his agitation in entering he hail imperfectly 
closed the outer door of his suite of chambers. Two visitors had 
penetrated into the antechamber, and geiitly pushed open the door 


190 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


of the sitting-room. Siiddenl}^ we say, George Barton looked up. 
His eyes in a flash took in two figures standing in the doorway, 
with the subdued reflection of the summer light behind them — two 
figures with startled, sorrowful eyes and terrified faces — Lord 
Charles and Lad}^ Blanche! 

He leaped to his feet. His ruffled hair stood up around his head 
like the mane of an angry lion; his eyes were fierce and flaming 
and blood-shot; his teetii and hands were clinched, and there was 
foam upon his lips. Instinctively he made a move as if he were 
going to leap at Lord Charles, who involuntarily shrunk back a step. 
Lady Blanche remained for an instant, with her hands clasped in 
horror, gazing at the terrible statue before her. Then, with a quick, 
piercing cry, that thrilled through George’s heart — “ George Bar- 
ton! dh, my God!”~she took three rapid steps, and throwing her 
arms round his neck, she clasped him to her heart. 

At the sight of that tearful suffering, at the sudden, overwhelm- 
ing conviction that his reason had lost its balance, all the unknown 
and undiscovered fountains of her love had been unsealed in a mo- 
ment, like the waters of the rock at the touch of the prophet’s 
wand, and, torrent for torrent, the swelling flow of crystal springs 
of love had come to meet the turbid waters of his wrath. 

A vivid pang of anguish thrilled through George Barton’s heart, 
swift and brief as lightning; then came a fresh hurricane of feel- 
ing, like a rushing, mighty wind, which seemed in one moment to 
sweep his soul’s horizon clear of all the black and dense commo- 
tion which had been raging from sky to sky; and, in its place, a 
quick glow of sunlight filled the hemisphere. And the birds in the 
window, roused by the noise and movement, filled his ears with a 
nervous thrilling melody. Ah! he heard them now^ — only for an 
instant— never to be forgotten in his life; and then, before he could 
say anything, before he could return that loving pressure, the blood 
went back to his heart, his head drooped, he slipped out of Lady 
Blanche’s arns and lay senseless on the floor. 

“Charlie! Charlie! Ob, heisd 3 Mng — water, water! quick!” 

She knelt down instantly, pushing back with her hand the hair 
that had fallen over his clammy’' forehead, rapidly undoing his 
necktie and collar, ere Lord Charles, before whose eyes this scene 
liad passed like a dream in one fourth of the time it has taken to 
tell it, recovered at the same instant his presence of mind, his judg- 
ment, and his activity. 

“ Blanche! Blanche, 1 say! You know — 1 mean, what does this 
mean?’‘ He ran forward and seized her arm. “ O Lord, 1 say, 
Blanche, go away quick — I’ll attend to him — go, for Heaven’s 
sake!” 

“ Water!” she said, hoarsely, shaking off his hand. “ Will you 
go, 1 say? or must 1 fetch it?” 

Her eyes and voice were so determined that Lord Charles gave 
way and ran into the adjoining bedroom for the water. His reflec- 
tions w^ere, 

“Oh, 1 say! this is awful! I never suspected that. 1 wish' to 
Heaven] hadn’t biought her up! What will the earl say? Poor 
George- -poor dear fellow— it was perfectly dreadful! IS ever saw 
such a thing—” 


A WEEK OF PASSIOIS'. 


191 


“ Charlie! Charlie!” 

He ran back with the water-jug. She had thrown off her bonnet 
and ijloves, and was kneeling by Barton’s side, chafing his death- 
coli hands in her own. so small and delicate, but warm with life 
and love. She was bending eagerly over his face, on which it really 
seemed that the dew and ghastliness of deatii had fallen. A thrill 
of fear ran through Lord Charles’s frame as he looked at the face. 
But he was brave, and had recovered his coolness. 

“ Charlie, what do you think?” 

” Think! 1 think he has fainted. Look out!” 

And Blanche scarcely had time to get out of the way when a 
great dash of water went into the face of her lover, followed by a 
second and a third. Lord Charles went on one knee beside his 
friend. He took a hand and chafed it. Blanche took the other. 
Their eyes met ; she became crimson. Lord Charles’s eye had grown 
gentle. To his first surprise and pain, at the astounding move of 
his beloved and admired sister, to his natural and aristocratic sense 
of the impropriety of her conduct, and the far more serious incon- 
'cenance of that which it imported, there had succeeded a tenderer 
feeling, half sympathy, half regret lor his sister, and deep sorrow 
for George Barton. As for her, he had read in her eye, at that 
moment when she so peremptorily refused to leave George’s side, 
an irrevocable resolution, such as he had never known to succuiiih 
when once it was formed in her mind. She vrhom he thought im- 
preiruable, whom he had seen unmoved by the most brilliant suit- 
ors in the entire range of the nobility, loved— and she loved George 
Barton! That was clear as daylight, and terrible to Lord Charles as 
the sunshine of the desert. 

” Well,” he said to himself, as he rubbed away vigorously, ” it’s 
plain she loves him; and if she does, by Jove I’ll stand to her.” 

And looking up at her face, which had grown pale again, he gave 
her an encouraging smile, frank and manly, and said, 

” It’s all right, dear Blanche. Don’t be frightened. 1 think he 
is coming round.” 

The next moment Barton opened his ej'^es. They fell first upon 
Lady Blanche’s sweet face, and then upon that of Lord Charles. 
Both were bent over him with tender anxiety. A slight shudder 
passed through his frame at the recollection of that awful dream out 
of which he had awakened; then the song of the birds resounded 
sweet and loud in his ears, a very paean of joy. It seemed to him 
as if their melody had never been interrupted, and the warm blood, 
suddenly pulsating through his whole system, as he recalled 
Blanche’s last act, he seized the little hand which was in his, and 
carried it to his lips. She blushed, a divine blush of love and vir- 
gin modesty; and Lord Charles, muttering, 

” There, you are a pair of fools!” added, ‘‘Are you better. Bar- 
ton? Do you think you could get up? Take his other arm, 
Blanche. There, you will be better on the sofa. So. Now, 1 say, 
Blanche, Blanche— he’s all right now ; what the deuce are we to do?” 

” Charlie!” cried Lady Blanche, taking both his hands, and 
fixing him with a frank, appealing look of her violet eyes, ” we 
may trust you — mayn’t we?” 

” Yes,” replied Lord Charles, with a side glance at George, who 


192 


A AVEEK OF PASSIO?^’. 


now, thoroughly alive to all that had passed, was looking on silent, 
with wonder and pain and bliss ail commingled. “ But I never saw 
such a thing in ray life!” 

Lady Blanche’s head drooped under the curious, troubled glance 
of her bi other, and her heart throbbed, as she recalled the strange- 
ness and significance ot the movement to which a sudden emotion 
had prompted her with a force that tiesh and blood could not con- 
trol. And yet, thrilled with the ecstasy of that quick revelation, 
she did not regret it. She had no time to analyze her thoughts; but 
to the touch of reason her heart repeated, in bell-like tones, that the 
noon ol love had struck— and struck just and true. Yes — she loved 
him, she felt it now in every fiber of her beimr; and looking up 
shyly, after a moment ot confusion, caused by her brother's pene- 
trating look, she caught George’s eyes fixed upon her with wonder- 
ing adoration. He took her hand. Gazing in each other’s faces, 
they lost all consciousness of anything but their own unutterable 
happiness. Lord Charles silently went out into the antechamber, 
and, leaving the door ajar, paced slowly up and down. 

They were alone; the birds sung high and clear, and the rays ol 
the sinking sun filled the room with a softened glow. The light 
played upon Blanche’s hair, kissing the satin beauty of her cheek. 
She had never seemed to him more lovely. The excitement had 
deepened the usually uentle tint of her skin into a bright glow, and 
strangely quickened the crystalline beauty ot her eyes; and her face 
was transfigured by that smile of love which owes its tender mag- 
ical charm to the sadness that underlies all deep human emotion. 

As yet he was hardly able to realize what had happened. He 
seemed to have awakened from a dreaflful nightmare upon a noon 
of splendor and a vision of angels. He closed his eyes, and, the hor- 
rible recollections coming back to him with vivid force, he shud- 
dered, Opening them again, the light was all around him, and she 
was there, looking at him with startled but tender anxiety. 

” What is it, George?” 

“Oh, Blanche, 1 love you — 1 love you!” He pressed her hand 
against his throbbing heart, throbbing now with the full pulse ot 
life. 

She knelt by his side; he threw his arms round her; their lips 
met ia the first kiss ot love, while the birds seemed to sing more 
shrilly and triumphantly than betore, “ 1 love you — I love you!” 

She drew her head back a moment, and pushing the hair oft his 
brow with her hand, every touch of which sent a fresh thrill 
through his frame, said, while the modest flush deepened in her 
face. 

“ What can you think of me?” 

“ l^ou are an angel — an angel from heaven sent to rescue me from 
madness, and horror worse than death.” 

No man in George Barton’s position could appreciate the fine 
shade ot anguish that had penetrated Lady Blanche’s tone when she 
put that question. He was too wrapped up in the bliss of feeling 
that she had owned herself his, in wonder at his triumph, to estimate 
the full extent of the sacrifice she had made in abandoning her 
woman’s prerogative— the right to be sought for and not to seek. 
The avowal that had been wiung from her heart in an unguarded 


A WEEK OE PASSIOX. 


193 


moment appeared more natural and less tmfeminine to him, glowing 
with the happiness ot blessed assurance, than it would have done 
could he have fairly judged it apart from the joy of the discovery. 
Her quick intuition told her this. 

“ res,”she said, burying her blushing face in his shoulder; “ but, 
George, George, only think what 1 have donel” 

“What you have done, my ovvn Blanche— I may call you 
Blanche?— 3mu are my own now, are you not?— only a noble soul 
like yours could have done! You have lifted a dark curtain which 
shut from m3 eyes the secrets of your heart. You have suddenly' 
let in upon my soul all the light and warmth of your love.'’ 

“ Ah! George,” she said, raising her head and searching his eyes, 
“ you do not yet understand what 1 have done. I must tell you all 
frankly, for This is an hour when there must be no secrets between 
us, and soul must speak to soul as if in the presence of a divinit}" 
who will make our future happy or miserable according to the truth 
and purity ot our thoughts and feelings at this moment. George— 
1 must tell you— when 1 came to that door with Charlie 1 had no 
idea of the real state of my heart to'ward you. We have spent many 
years of constant intercourse and friendship; we have met often, 
and exchanged our thoughts freelj^ but always under the restraint 
' — with the conviction that— 3’-ou know— the conditions of our two 
lives allowed of no closer ties; and so, as day succeeded day, there 
was no minute when my heart had consciously taken a longer step, 
or feelings had expanded from bud to blossom.” 

“Oh, Blanche!” cried George Barton, “ you did not know my 
heart; the blossoms were blooming all over it, though they w^ere 
covered by the veil which honor and 103'alty to you and yours, and 
m3’’ own dignity — you understand me? — forced me to throw over 
them!” 

“ 1 know— 1 know; 1 do not sa3’’ that 1 had not dimly guessed 
the secret you strove so manfully to hide. 1 will not say that now 
and then 1 did not feel the chords oi my heart vibrate strangely in 
your presence and at your words; but 1 am inexperienced; Idid not 
feel it to be all that lli&d conceived and dreamed of as love; 1 did 
not feel— as — as I do now!” and she hid her face again on his bosom, 

“ One thing I felt: that there was no one like you among all 1 knew 
— that 3mu had an intellectual power, and nobleness ot soul, and 
purity and warmth of heart, and— yes. let me say it — take your hand 
oft my moutn, sir!— and a brilliancy ot talent— I should call it genius 
— which made you superior to most men 1 had met. 1 am not going 
to spoil you by saying more. But you see, George— and you must 
forgive me— 1 am one of those poor women who are born to a sta- 
tion — imprisoned in a close circle of conventionality— brought up to 
deliberate short sightedness— or, rather, hooded like the falcon, 
whose eyes are only set free b3’’ the master’s hand when he has fixed 
upon the object at which they are to strike. M3’’ thoughts were not 
free; 1 was trained only to strike at the highest game; and what 
miserable gibier most of it is! And only fancy what a girl must feel 
wdio is brought up almost as a bird ot prey.” 

“ 1 don’t know,” said George, a little pang of jealousy flitting 
through his heart. “ L don’t know about the gibier, though. It is 


194 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK". 


not at all miserable. There is Tilbury.” He was gently sticking 
her silken hair with his hand. 

She threw her head back and glanced at him curiously. 

How strange!” she said. ‘‘His name was just upon my lips. 
George— 1 must tell you— it is a solemn secret known only to the 
countess and myself; and after what has happened to-day, it really 
makes me seem so frivolous and volatile and foolish and inconse- 
quential that I hardly know how to avow it, or what you will think 
of me when jmu hear it. Well, you know, 1 really am very fond 
of my Cousin Tilbury— there, you needn’t blush— there is a little 
kiss for you— on the forehead— 1 won’t tell you why I gave you 
that ! — but 1 never could feel that 1 really loved him. He was cer- 
tainly the most attractive young fellow in the entire peerage, and 1 
knew that the earl as well as my aunt were dying that 1 should 
marry him. And — and, George — 1 know now, since his illness — 
even since 1 saw you this moming— that he loved me deeply and 
truly— oh, so deeply and evidently that my heart really bled for 
him. George, 1 can hardly realize the emotions 1 have passed 
thiougli during the last twenty-four hours. It ail seems so wonder- 
ful, so fatal, so incredible!’' 

” Strange! But these are the things which try the temper of 
strong souls,” said Barton, with the cool and somewhat feeble 
philoscphy of triumphant love. “ When 1 see and hear you speak- 
ing of them so calmly and yet with so much depth of feeling, 
Blanche, I see of how much finer temper your soul is than mine.” 

‘ Ho, no,” said Lad}’- Blanche. ” Don’t do yourself an injustice, 
or credit me with a force 1 do not possess. My emotions have been 
those of sentiment, which never go very deep, and yours of passion, 
which shake up the very foundations of one’s being. 1 have had 
only one momentary, if terrible, glimpse of sorrow, while you have 
suffered its reality. My dear George, if you make such superficial 
and feeble remarks to me, 1 shall begin to think you do not set a 
very high estimate on my understanding.” 

He blushed and smiled. 

” Aou evidently will not allow me to cherish the delusion long,” 
he .<!aid. ” Go on, dear Blanche.” 

“ Well, George, there is something curious, inscrutable in all that 
has happened; some people would call it ‘ providential.’ When 
poor Tilbury was carried home dying, apparently, and lingered on 
there, hovering between life and’ death, and 1 knew that his poor 
mother was distracted about him, a kind of loving pity took posses- 
sion of my heart. 1 knew, 1 felt, he loved me, George; and when 
1 thought of all the men 1 had met this season, and of all the dreary 
parteireof aristocratic flowers, some of them fresh, some of them 
fanks, and gone to seed, most of them ugly, from which 1 was 
expected to pick the one 1 would wear on my heart through life, an 
utter sense of dissatisfaction and hopelessness settled down upon 
me, and 1 really lelt as it 1 must turn to my Cousin Edw^ard as the 
only possible and endurable companion of my life. And somehow 
my heart melted a little toward him-vdien 1 knew he was so ill; and 
1 became possessed with the idea that 1 ought to sacrifice myself, if 
it would help to rally him, not only for his own sake, but his moth- 
er’s, and all concerned. You see, George, although 1 may have 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 195 

caught kittle flashes and glimpses ot a liking for me in your behavior 
‘now and then — ” 

“Oh!” groaned Mr. Barton. 

“ Still, 3’ou must admit that ] had precious little — hardly more 
than a pin-point to build a romance upon— until last night, when I 
think you behaved very badly— with Colston looking on all the 
while—” 

Barton seized the hand on which he had committed the trespass, 
and kissed it twice— three times, passionately. 

“ But, you see, that had not happened at the time I am speaking 
of, and 1 seemed to be doomed to just one choice, and there was a 
little— just a little— movement of my heart that way. So I went 
and told dear Aunt Doia all about it frankly, and ottered to go and 
nurse him, and like the high-souled, good, honorable creature she 
is, she said she could not accept a sacrifice, she must have love— a 
devotion.” 

“Bless her!” murmured George, as he drew a deep breath of 
relief, for never had lover listened to a more disquieting narrative. 

“ George!” cried Lady Blanche, nervously, for her whole soul 
was in this confession, and her heart was throbbing with anxiety as 
she tried to read the effect of it in his face, for now it had become 
life and death lo her that he should love her without a shade of 
doubt, without a solitary atom of reserve— “ George! think of it: 
this was only yesterday — yesterday morning! — 1 could not say 1 
loved him— and when 1 came, early this very morning, to think 
seriously over what 1 had done and what might have come of it, I 
thanked Heaven for my escape, for 1 could never, never be happy 
with any one unless 1 could give him my whole soul. And then, 
last evening, you came; and you looked at me so earnestly, and jmu 
looked, oh! so very sorrowful, and yet, I thought, so noble in your 
sorrow; and— and you let me see a little more of your heart than 1 
had ever seen before, and somehow I could not get your face and 
liguve out ot my mind; but still 1 did not know what was the real 
state of my heart— until — until 1 saw you, there— you — generally so 
strong and calm and self-restrained— apparently quite shattered and 
wu'ecked by tlie tempest ot your griefs; and then, George, oh! 1 can 
not tell you what w’ent through my heart like a quick, sharp stao, 
and it seemed as it hot hidden springs gushed out toward you; and I 
knew that you were more precious to me than everything else— than 
my dignit)^ my womanly reserve — ay, even my life— and that — 1 
loved you!” 

Her head drooped upon his shoulder, and while tears of love and 
joy flow’ed from his eyes he pressed it against his heart. 

“ Oh, Blanche, Blanche, my love, my sweet, what can 1 ever give 
you in return for such a love as this — a love which has gone through 
the crucible and has come out pure gold? This is the sw^eetest story 
that ever fell from human lips on human ears. Blanche, my love, 
it is only now that 1 begin to realize wdiat a sacrifice you have made 
for poor, unw’orth}^ me! Blind, stupid, selfish creature that 1 am! 

1 was so wrapped up in my owm bliss that 1 did not take in all the 
grandeur of your devotion— the divine magnanimity of your love. 
Blanche, 1 could go down and kiss your feet and worship you; for 
by your side 1 am ouh’’ a poor, v^eak mortal, w hile you — ” 


196 


A WEEK OF PASSIOl!^. 


“ Stay, George!” she said, putting her fingers on his lips; “ I want 
DO more. 1 wanted only to teel that you understood me~that you 
had not mistaken me— that you had not lost a fragment of that 
respect and reverence for me which are essential to the permanence 
of affection— such as lie at the bottom of my love for you. Weie a 
single chip struck off from those, I should feel that the sacrifice of 
my womanly modesty and reserve had been thrown away. You 
have said enough— quite too intensely— but in a way that carries 
conviction to my heart. 1 believe you. Oh, George, George! what 
is this feeling in my heart? 1 love you — 1 love yi^ul” 

Loud and shrill in George Barton’s excited ear sung the birds, “ 1 
love you— 1 love you!” 

At that moment Lord Charles tapped lightly on the door, and 
said, 

“ 1 say, may 1 come in?” 

And entering, after a decent interval he went on: 

” 1 have smoked three cigarettes, you know, and it’s past six 
o’clock; and I didn’t know how long this sort of thing might go oa 
if you hadn’t some fellow who hasn’t quite lost his head to remind 
you that this is not Arcadia, but London, and that the earl dines at 
eight, and expects Mrs. Barton to dinner.” 

George started with a pained expression. This, indeed, was com- 
ing back from Arcady to London, with all its blackness. 

” Yes,” said Blanche, in reply to his inquiring look, “that is 
what we came here for,” 

” —Little thinking,” interpolated Lord Charles, ” what was in 
store for us. The carriage is below. We wanted to get you to 
come with us to your mother, and help us to persuade her to come 
and stay in Portman Square. The earl insists on it— will take no 
excuse. Blanche, who had never seen a barrister’s chambers, would 
accompany me up here to surprise you— and, by Jove! 1 should say 
she has done it— and me, too! You know, George, my dear fellow, 
this is an awfully serious business. l*ve been turning it over in 
my mind while you two iiave been spooning, and I tell you ray con- 
viction is, it’s all very well to spoon, but how are you going to get 
the earl to swallow the mess? Halloo! old fellow, 1 say— are you ill 
again?” 

Lord Charles’s gravity or solemnity never expressed itself in the 
form of his language, which was always of the rococo style: that is, 
florid, and rather wanting in dignity, but in the tone of his voice, 
which could become as lugubrious as that of an undertaker, and in 
the imperturbable gravity of his manner. 

While Lord diaries bad been speaking, George, at the mention 
of his mother, had put his hands to his head, and a visible anguish 
contracted his brow. 

” Ah!” he groaned. ” Blanche Layton, it is this which has nearly 
driven me mad. My poor mother— you will not recognize her! It 
is simply ayful. She is a wreck; her hair is while as snow; her 
face is shrunken; and her eyes— oh! her eyes—” He shuddered 
and closed his own, as if to shut out an intolerable sight. 

Lady Blanche and her brother exchanged glances. The young 
lord’s face had suddenly become grave and gloomy. He nodded to 
her to speak. 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


197 

“ George,” she said, ” in deep, earnest tones, ” it you really love 
me, as 1 believe you do, (ell us what this all means! What is this 
dreadful business about your father? What is this about your poor 
mother? What is the horrible secret wnich is driving you — frantic? 
Tell me— tell Charlie and me, both of whom love you—” 

‘‘Both of whom love you,” chimed in Lord Charles’s manly 
voice. 

‘‘ — What is this sorrow which seems to be weighing you down, 
and is making the earl look like a walking skeleton?” 

The young lorci silently approved this last expression, which, 
struck him as graphic, by a nod of the head. 

This appeal, although it seemed full of peril, was salutary, for 
the reason ibat it obliged George Barton to divert his thoughts from 
the agonizing subject of his mother, and to summon all his powers 
to the double task of meeting the anxious curiosity of Lady Blanche, 
whose ingenuous love, whose generous sacrifice, called for some cor- 
responding frankness on his part, and of avoiding a disclosure of 
the earl’s secret, to guard which had, by a shift of (he weallier-gaga 
of passion, become once more a matter of paramount importance to 
him. 

He opened his eyes and turned them on the fair questioner. 

‘‘ Blanche,” he said — then, looking shyly at Lord Charles — ” you 
know you said 1 might call you ‘ Blanche ’ now.” 

A smile was her only answer, and the young lord almost imper- 
ceptibly shrugged his sliouldeis. 

” Blanche, and my dear Lord Charles—” 

‘‘ Humph!” said the latter grimly. ‘‘ 1 think that under the cir- 
cumstances, over which, by the way, 1 have no control, you may as 
well call me ‘ Charlie.’ ” 

” Thank you, old fellow; long ago, when we were younger, 1 used 
to do so. Well, 1 must own to you that 1 think if you two had not 
come in when you did, and if you, dear Blanche, had not brought 
me angel’s comfort, in the sweetness of that betrayal which 1 should 
never have had the courajre to provoke, spite of the passionate love 
which possessed my soul, 1 should have become a raving madman.” 
Lord Charles nodded. ” Kow, you think, very properly, that you 
have a right to some explanation of the ground of these ex- 
traordinary emotions — the cause of the pain and ansfuish which 
brought on that condition, in which I am ashamed and mortified 
to think you found me; ay!” he added, gravely, in response to a 
little pressure of Lady Blanche’s hand, and a shy glance of her eye, 
‘‘ even though it has been the means of opening to me the golden 
gates of a Paradise at which 1 had so often gazed with longing eyes, 
but with the feeling that 1 was not vvorthy to enter it. Blanche, 
Charlie— you must believe me— you must, if you love and trust me, 
take it from me— that the secret 1 am carrying is not my own, and 
that the experiences of that terrible hour, known only to God and 
me, must never escape my lips— no, dearest Blanche, not even to 
you— for it w’as an hour of folly and madness.” 

‘‘ You see, my dear fellow,” said Lord Charles, solemnly shaking 
his head, ‘‘the thing is this. Blanche and you and I are placed, 
by her astounding coiLp de tonnerre—v^^\\\c\\ w’as just like one of the 
scenes in Hugo’s novels, where the most outrageous thing that could 


198 


A WEEK OE PASSIOK. 


possibly happen turns up as a sort of every-day event— in a very 
serious” position. There’s no use concealing it— now is there, 
Blanche?— that you two have let yourselves in for a task to which 
the labors of Eercules, or the Channel tunnel, or the Panama 
canal, or anything of that kind, you know, is mere child’s play. 
Forgive me, George, for being a little frank — 1 don’t want to dis- 
courage you, or you, Blanche— I’ll stick to you now the die is cast, 
but my belief is that, it the earl ever hears of this, we must all make 
up our minds to be hanged, drawn and quartered— he’ll cut me off 
with a shilling to a dead certainty, and you will never get his con- 
sent it you wait till doomsday. Well, my dear George— candor for 
candor — 1 have a responsibility in regard to my sister. She is 
cleverer than 1 am, though she is younger; but 1 am a man, and 1 
will never stand by and see her happiness compromised without 
making an effort to save her. And if 1 am to be an accessory be- 
fore the fact and after the fact to this high-treason and conspiracy 
against the paternal Priam, 1 must at least be satisfied that my sis- 
ter’s affection is not fixed— in— in a direction, you knew, in w'hicff 
my own judgment tells me ii is wrong and dangerous to allow it to 
be fixed. You won’t mind my saying it, George; you know what 1 
mean? 1 haven’t your facility and elegance of expression, you 
know, old fellow, and 1 can’t beat about the bush with delicate 
euphuisms; but what 1 mean is, that- 1 — I think you ought to try 
and satisfy us that this awful fit of the blues, which we have wit- 
nessed with so much pain and regret, is due to some special and ex- 
traordinary cause, and— and isn’t going to be the regular thing, you 
know.” 

Lord Charles delivered this, for him, unprecedentedly long speech 
with an earnestness of manner that inspired respect, w'hile his tone 
was at once manly and affectionate. Some of the best qualities of 
the English nature appeared in the simple and straightforw^ard can- 
dor, the delicacy of feeling, the deep affection for his sister and re- 
gard for his friend, and the common-sense w'hicn, even in an hour 
of emotion, would not be diverted from practical considerations. 
Lady Blanche had once or twice looked at him with appeal in her 
eyes, but he went bravely on. The quaintness of the form w as due 
to the natural awkw'ardness of an Englishman in expressing deep 
and serious emotions, and it was perfectly innocent of any humor- 
ous intention, though it brought now and then, in spite ot herself, 
Ik little malicious gleam into Lady Blanche’s face. She could not help 
admiring her brother’s manliness and sincerity, albeit, in her exist- 
ing state of sensibility, she thought the moment w^as inopportune 
for raising such a delicate question, especially when the subject of 
anxiety had hardly yet recovered from a violent shock. 

The young lord’s words, however, could hardly have been better 
chosen had their object been to call back to fertile activity all the 
powers of George Barton’s manhood. They had touched the right 
spring, and his spirit responded to the call. His system was one of 
no ordinary temper, full of health and vigor, and sound to the core 
with that soundness which is inherited from a stock ot virtuous and 
temperate progenitors, and is inherent in a bodv and soul whose 
purity has been cherished as an inviolably precious element of their 
nature. Hence, although, in that awful crisis, the forces of a pow- 


A WEEK OF PASSIOFT. 


199 

erful mind had been strained to their utmost tension, though it had 
prostrated him tor a time to an extent which, for most men, would 
have demanded a long process of recovery, it only served in his case 
to test and prove the tempered elasticity of his being. When to this 
had been added the quickening actioi] ot that subtle and i?otent 
elixir, administered by Lady Blanche at the moment when his 
powers were tailing him, it was no miracle that his nerves had, with 
wonderful rapidity, recovered their strength, and that he felt him- 
self inspirited with a fresh renewal ot energy. 

He did not, however, respond immediately to Lord Charles’s ap- 
peal, but inaking a sign, he rose from the sofa, and silently took a 
tew turns in the room. Having ascertained that he could rely upon 
his physical strength, he excused himself, and retiring for a tew 
minutes presently returned, the disorder ot his dress and face 
arranged, his look clear and calm, his manner natural and com- 
posed. 

Going up to Lady Blanche, he took both her hands, and gazed 
into her eyes, 

“ Blanche,” he said, “ you came to me just now as an angel and 
minister of grace! Now look into my eyes — the windows of my 
soul — and tell me whether you can catch a glimpse of any of those 
spirits of evil, those phantoms of darkness and madness, which you 
just now charmed awa}^ by the spell of your voice? They have fled 
— thank Heaven and you — they have gone forever! Look here, 
Blanche he put his arm around her and drew her to the window 
— “ two things will never pass from my memory; one is the thrill 
ot feeling 1 experienced when you pressed my poor crazed head 
against your heart; the other is the song of these two birds which 
at that same instant suddenly broke in upon my ears tvith a music 
of ecstasy and joy. Henceforth, when you are not by me, they will 
continue the enchantment; their voice will be your voice, and their 
song your song.” 

The two birds, glancing for a moment with their heads on one 
side, out of their bright, beaded eyes, as it startled by the approach, 
of the j’oung couple, while they seemed to listen to the familiar and 
musical voice of their master, suddenly stretched their yellow necks, 
opened their bills, sw'elling their downy throats, and warbled forth 
a melody, gay, bright, clear, triumphant, 

“ See,’ he said, “ Blanche, they are at home with you already. 
They are singing the psean of love’s victory, though they do not 
know how great and wonderful it is. 

“ Now, Charlie,” he said, turning to the young lord, but still hold- 
ing Blanche’s hifnd in his own, “lam ready to answer you. 1 am 
not mad, most noble Festus, but speak the words of soberness and 
truth. Tell me, il you had seen your mother — whose love and charm 
you still remember — as 1 have to-day seen mine, if you had lootced 
upon the wreck of that which had always been in your ej^es the 
type ot comeliness and perfection, the embodiment of all that was 
lovable and good, and you had known that the ruin which shocked 
you to the marrow of your bones had been wrought, not by any 
ordinary dispensation of fate or chance of life, but through the cal- 
culated and deliberate wu’ckeduess of villains whose identity you 
were certain of, but whose guilt it was not possible for you to prove 


200 


A ’WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


without bringiufj: trouble and shame upon some you respected and 
loved, what would have been the condition of your mind? Do you 
think you could remain cool and collected? Do you believe you 
could keep your mind clear? Do you imagine you could reason 
with the calmness of a mathematician?” 

Lord Charles shook his head. 

” God forbid, Barton, that 1 should ever have to endure such an 
experience as you paint so vividly. 1 should take a hansom at once 
to Bedlam, and ask them to take me in.” 

Lady Blanche had listened eagerly as Barton spoke. Her curi- 
osity was excited by the important admissions involved in his words. 
Whom did he suspect of his father’s murder? Who were the 
persons ivhom he respected and loved, and on whom, he said, trouble 
and shame mi^ht come were the guilt of his father’s murderers to 
be established? She made no remark, but her clear, active mind 
W'as engaged in the efiort to form some hypothesis out of these 
enigmatic words. 

“ Well,” continued George Barton, “ that— superadded, remem- 
ber, to my grief over my poor father’s fate, for there is not the 
slightest doubt now that he has been foully murdered — was mur- 
dered in the Circus in that horrible manner — that is my experience. 
You can not, then, be surprised if 1 had an hour of agony and even 
madness. But as 1 hold this hand in mine, and as 1 hope to live 
and die in the happiness of your sister’s love, 1 give you the solemn 
assurance that 1 do not believe it possible that such a fit of weak- 
ness can ever come again. In that brief hour 1 seem to have en- 
dured and outlived all possible sorrows, all possible agonies, all 
possible tortures of the soul; and now lama new man, strong in 
the hope of having some day at my side the loving spirit that came 
and drew me out of the valley of the shadow^ of Death!” 

He pressed her hand to his heart, and looked at Lord Charles 
with the glow of sincerity and confidence in his eyes. 

” Barton,” said the young lord, much moved, “ 1 believe you— 
and 1 think your explanation — just like you — you’re as eloquent as 
Liddon or Gladstone, but not quite so difiuse— accounts, to some 
extent, for the state in which we found you. But we must talk of 
that again We must insist— eh, Blanche?— on your permitting us 
to share your anxieties. Many shoulders make a light l)urden, and 
even you aren’t an Atlas. However, there’s no time to discuss that 
now. And then we’ve got to consider what’s to be done about you 
two. Egad! I’d sooner have cut my hand off that have allowed 
Blanche to come to the top of those stairs if I’d known what was in 
store for us! But— there, you see— it’s just as old-Mouncey always 
used to say, after he’d got awfully drunk and hit a proctor at Ox- 
ford, ‘The devil was in it;’ and so— ]’m— I’m awfully glad, old 
fellow; 1 really don’t think there’s a better fellow living.” 

And the jmung lord grasped George’s hand with some emotion, 
while Lady Blanche rewarded her brother with a kiss. 

Lady Blanche, rapidly putting on her bonnet and gloves, turned 
to the young men and said, 

” I think 1 had better go alone to Mis. Barton, if you will intrust 
me with the mission, George? i may say that 1 have obtained your 
approval of her coming home with me, may 1 not?” 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


201 

George Barton read a meaning in her eye which escaped Lord 
Charles, and assented. He could not at that moment have borne 
the excitement of an interview with his mother. At Lord Charles's 
suggestion, he and Barton were to dine in the city together, and 
arrive at Portman Square later in the evening. 

“ And one thing more,” she said, before she went, as she gave 
him her hand, with a blush in her cheek; ” something 1 had nearly 
forgotten. Aunt Dura charged me to tell you that Tilbury wants 
earnestly to see you; and she begs you will go to-morrow about 
twelve, and be sure not to let anything prevent you, for my poor 
cousin’s state does not admit of crossing any of his fancies. Now, 
mind, she counts on you — and so do 1!” 

“ Ah!” groaned Lord Charles; “ then, you may depend upon it, 
he’ll go.” 

As the young lord escorted his sister to the carriage, for he per- 
emptorily refused to allow Barton to have his chambers, bethought, 
and said to himself, that he had never seen her look more beautiful. 
A sudden ripeness seemed to have mellowed her charms; her face 
was grave, but glowing with the warmth of love; and in the in- 
tensified brightness and firmness of her glance he read not only a 
sweet, solemn happiness, but the ardor of a great resolve. 

” Egad!” he murmured, as he returned upstairs, ‘‘ if anyone can 
manage it, she will — but it will require a miracle. The only chance 
I see for them is that the earl should get converted by Spurgeon or 
General Booth, and renounce the pomps and vanities of this wicked 
world, which might induce him to eat humble pie. "Either that, or 
George’s turning out to be the grandson of a marquis, with the 
wealth of a Monte Cristo. Ouida, now, could arrange it all to a 
marvel! But confound it all, as 1 said just now, nothing more im- 
probable w^as ever conceived of in a novel than what has happened; 
and now that we are launched on a career of romance, the impossi- 
ble may come to top the improbable and prove the old gibe that truth 
is stranger than fiction.” 

******* 

When, two minutes later, Lady Blanche entered the darkened 
parlor occupied by Mrs. Barton at the Salisbury Hotel, she was in- 
deed shocked at the ruin wrought in her friend. Prepared by 
George’s graphic description, and more graphic sorrow, for a great 
change, the reality exceeded all her anticipations. The poor widow, 
in deep mourning, lay on the sofa in a nerveless attitude, her hair, 
now quite white,' coifed under a widow’s cap, her pleasing, comely 
face, looking as if a withering blight had passed over it, and those 
fine brown eyes, which used to be so vivacious, become sunken and 
dim. She was so ir recognizable that for a moment Lady Blanche 
was almost going to excuse herself and retire, when the melancholy 
figure motioned to her to stay, and covering its face with a hand- 
kerchief, held out a hand that looked white and thin as that of a 
specter. The thoughts and sensations of the young beauty, after 
herself passing months in the brilliant gayeties of the season as an 
object of general admiration and envy, when brought suddenly face 
to face with this sad ruin of a fine woman w’eie profoundly painful. 
For a moment she seemed glued to the floor. She had to summon 
all her forces to enable her to avoid a cry of astonishment, and to 


202 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


meet the shock of her first meeting with the shattered and broken- 
hearted woman, now become to her an object of affectionate solici- 
tude, She, however, quickly regained her self-command, and step- 
ping to the side of the couch, seized and kissed the hand extended 
to her. VYith an effort Mrs, Barton raised her head and tried to 
speak, but the words died on her lips. Seeing her droop, Lady 
Blanche threw her arm round her neck, pillowing the sorrowful, 
anguished brain, and the whitened locks and faded cheek of the 
mother upon her bosom, where only a little before the suffering 
head of the son had rested. The two women wept a while in 
silence, the elder clinging to the younger with desperate energy, as 
if some instinct told her that there, in the strong, young heart, of 
which she could hear and feel the throbbing, there was something 
of hope and repair for the tottering ruins of her own existence. 

And Blanche’s first word, chosen with exquisite tact, sent a 
strange thrill through the languid heart of the widow. 

“ Mother!” 

The tone was so tender, sweet, and full of meaning that Mrs. Bar- 
ton startled, wondering, raised her head, and brushing the tears 
from her eyes, gazed eagerly into the face of the young girl. The 
intuition of maternal love had caught something in the word which 
the mother’s glance, quickening into light and clearness, sought to 
verify. 

Blanche, controlling her heart, which indeed was bursting with 
grief, smiled through her tears a divine smile of love and sympathy, 
and answered the questioning look in a voice that sounded in the 
ears of the widow like heavenly music, 

“ Yes, ’’'she said, “ 1 see you understand me. 1 have seen him! 
1 have just come from him; and — dear Mrs. Barton— dear mother, 
1 am his and yours forever!” 

This time it was Blanche who was clasped with nervous joy to the 
mother’s heart, beating with the energy of a new life, and for a 
while it seemed to those two women as if heaven had come upon 
earth, and sorrow and crying w’ere done away. 


CHAPTER XVI 1. 

DRAWING THE STING. 

Although Charles Pollard, in order to rouse his uncle from the 
apathy of despair, made that suggestion about the advisability of 
levanting at once in the yacht which his foresight had provided, he 
was as yet by no means disposed to throw up the game. 

The yacht, by the way, had fallen into his hands most oppor- 
tunely for his purpose, through the failure of a Russian prince to 
pay up the balance of her cost to the builders, who sold her for 
less than half the value to Captain Yates. Her name was the 
” Vera,” of two hundred tons. She was Clyde built, wdth beauti- 
ful lines, and her internal arrangements were luxurious and hand- 
some. If it had been possible to run away from memory as well as 
from justice, no more enchanting prospect could have been offered 
to the partners than a dash across the Atlantic in this superb and 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


203 


comfortable craft. But, unhappil}", neither of the intending pas- 
sengers was in a humoi to appreciate the aesthetic aspects of such a 
voyage. 

Charles Pollard, in the course of that secret life of pleasure which 
he had led, had become used to finding himself in positions where 
exposure would have ruined his character as a sober and trustworthy 
man of business. Hence he was cooler than his uncle in this crisis 
of their affairs, since he believed the earl to be at their mercy, not- 
withstanding what had occurred, and the only two people who 
knew {inything of the connection of the Pollards with the crime 
were Yates and Schultz, the latter of whom was out of the country; 
so that the nephew was for putting a bold face on things and run- 
ning the risk of discovery. He hankered after London and its gay 
life; he shrunk from admitting his guilt, as he would do by flight 
—from being hunted through the civilized world by Justice with 
her Iona: telegraphic tentacles and her confounded arrangements for 
extradition of criminals. Besides, demoralized as he was he still 
had an affection for his wife, the daughter of a brewer who was in 
Parliament, and his two children, w’hom he would be obliged to 
leave behind him, fresh victims of the crime which had poured out 
its streams of blood and sorrow in so many directions. After, there- 
fore, he had stirred up his uncle by discussing the ways and means 
of making good their escape to South America, he turned again to 
the subject of their position, and endeavored to convince his senior 
that whatever suspicions J\Ir. Sontag might entertain, it was quite 
impossible for him to lay hands on any evidence of their criminal- 
ity. 

But Joseph Pollard’s intellect was now quickened by peril, and 
not a single point of danger escaped his keen and practiced judg- 
ment. He said, 

“You foi’iret, Charlie, that young Barton probably know's of the 
forgery of those transfers. 1 reminded you of that before. No 
doubt he know^s as well of the deficiency in the rent account, so 
that it will be impossible for us to explain the restitution we made 
last week, and which, 1 fear, will turn out to have been a useless 
waste of resources. The evidence as to both these facts can not be 
suppressed. With two such charges against us they may try to fix 
us with the capital crime; and how do you know that all the agents 
Yates has employed will be trustworthy? In any case, 1 won’t risk 
being tried tor forgery and embezzlement. Then, again, the earl 
can fix us for all that money.’’ 

“He will never do that. We have only to threaten to tell the 
countess everything. He shrinks from that as he w’ould from 
death.” 

“ Possibly; but he may even risk her knowing all in order to get 
his money back or punish us. He has a masterly, overbeaiing 
spirit, and is a perfect devil when he’s crossed. 1 judge from this 
letter that Sontag has seen through your clever trick of reproducing 
the papers, and doesn’t believe they were lost. That sets him at 
guessing what object we had in the maneuver, the advertisement 
and all that. Every card we play seems to be trumped as soon as it 
is on the table. If he suspects us of one thing he will soon begin 


204 A WEEK OF PASSION. 

to suspect us of another; and remember this, we don’t know how 
much they know.” 

” Nor how little,” 

But Charles Pollard strove in vain to shake the elder partner’s 
mind on these points, in which he was so accurate and so un- 
answerable. 

In the middle of their discussion a knock came at the door, and a 
clerk handed in a letter. Charles Pollai'd, after a glance at the su- 
perscription, tore open the envelope. 

” Well,” he said, ‘‘ it you are determined to go, this is lucky. 
3My friend, you know, the captain — ” 

“ D — n him,” said Mr. Joseph, with a shudder. 

” Is now waiting for me. He says he has something important 
to communicate. 1 promised to give him the balance of that money 
to-night. 1 will go and tell him to order everything to be ready for 
a start. The rendezvous is the Three Tuns, at Gravesend, close 
by the water, where 1 will have the captain of the yacht w'aiting to 
take us off. Yates was to have met me there this evening anyway.” 

He caught up his hat to go to Clement’s Inn. 

“ Stay!” said the uncle, whose faculties were now all alive. 
“ Where are you going to meet him?” 

” At Clement’s Inn.” 

” Have you ever met him there before?” 

” Never. But he says in his note it is a safe place— the rooms of 
a friend. You see it is a very unsuspicious address.” Had Mr. 
Charles known what was the fact, that in the chambers referred to 
Mr. or ” Dr.” Schultz bad beetwconcealed during bis latest weeks 
in London his statement would have been confirnmd, though not in 
the sense in which he made it. 

‘‘ No doubt. Nevertheless, Charlie, don’t 5 "ou go. After that 
letter of Sontag’s, and the visit of that dreadful man, 1 should not 
be the least surprised if our movements were being watched. Just 
look here, Charlie; 1 haven’t spoken of it before,” He turned his 
chair round toward the window and put up his glasses. The room 
was in the front of the mansion, one of those noble chambers which 
were designed by Adam, or some other architect of the Georgian 
eia, with windows down to the floor. “There,” he said to his 
nephew, “ you have sharp eyes. Keep behind the curtain and just 
look out and see if there isn’t a short, seedy-lookiug fellow with a 
soft, black felt wide-awake on, slouching about anywhere.” 

“ Yes,” said Charles Pollard, turning toward his uncle with a 
face whicli had paled considerably. “ He is some distance down, 
leaning against Ihe railings of the garden.” 

“ 1 thought so. 1 nearly ran against him when 1 went out this 
morning to Westminster. When 1 came back 1 happened to look 
out of window, and saw him standing opposite. It seemed orld, 
but 1 should not have thought any more about it except for that 
fellow’s visit and his insolent manner. "We are being watched— at 
fill events, in our situation we must act as if we were. Write a note 
to your man to tell him to meet us at Gravesend, and to telegraph 
orders to the yacht to be ready to sail at midnight.” 

“ You are right, Uncle Joseph,” said Charles Pollard, as he went 
to his room to prepare the letter for Captain Abates. His manner 


A WEEK OF PASSIOET. 


205 


was sot>er and crestfalJen. The sensation of being watched as a 
criminal by detectives can hardly fail to depress the most buoyant 
nature, especially when there is a guilty conscience within it. A 
man must feel the jail-door yatvning and not far off when the man- 
catchers are after him. 

The boy who had come with the note had been directed to w^ait 
for an answer; and Charles Pollard, now suspicious of every one, 
sent for him to his room, and after a look at his face, which told 
him he had before him a gallows-bird, dressed as a lawyer’s boy, 
cautioned him to get away as quickly as possible, and keep the note 
out of sight. 

The young hopeful whispered to himself something like “ Gran- 
ny,” as his dark, wicked eyes leered at Mr. Charles in a knowing 
way. Enforcing his caution with halt a sovereign, which the youth 
with a wink slipped into his sock, he dismissed him, and returned 
to his uncle’s room just as Grayson, whose face was very red, and 
who spoke thickly and hurriedly, announced the Earl of Selby. 
The two partners only had time to exchange a glance before the 
peer walked into the room. 

Never did that consummate man of the world deploy with greater 
brilliancy the resources of his wit and experience than in this "daring 
raid into the enemies’ camp. With the most exquisite ease he ad- 
vanced to the two solicitors, and saluted them with that mixture of 
urbanity and condescension against which it is impossible for men 
not born to the manner to struggle; while they read in the cold 
glitter of his gray eye, and the sardonic smile lurking in the corners 
of his mouth, a triumphant sense of strength which was calculated 
in itself to chill and depress their spirits, "There was a certain stift- 
ness in their response to his somewhat patronizing affability which 
proved the inferiority of their diplomatic capacity. In his present 
humor it would have required a gentleman of the highest culture, 
and one of infinite resource and finesse, to match the peer. 

” Good-morning, gentlemen,’' he said; ‘‘I am lucky in finding 
you both together— "and 1 hope disengaged— as 1 have something 
important to say to you.” 

He took the easiest chair he could find, and laid his hat and stick 
on an adjacent table. 

” Your lordship is none too soon,” said Mr. Joseph Pollard, 
bluntly, ” to explain to us, as we hud a right to expect you would, 
the serious step you have taken Without consulting us, and, 1 must 
add, in direct violation of the common understanding between 
solicitor and client.” 

” Since 1 had the pleasure of seeing you yesterday,” replied the 
earl, with a charming assumption of naivete, ” 1 have taken several 
impoitant steps, Mr. Pollard, on which 1 did not consider it neces- 
sary to consult you. Which of them is it that has come to your 
knowledge?” 

” The particular one to which 1 allude,” said Mr. Pollard, senior, 

” is one which has procured us the honor of this communication 
from the chief of the Detective Department — such a communication 
as has never, during the long history of this house, been addressed 
to it.” He held out the letter toward the earl, who was within arm’s 
reach, but who did not appear to notice it. 


206 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


“ 1 trust it is in no way disagreeable,” said the earl. 

” Your lordship can judge for yourself,” persisted Mr. Pollard, 
still holding out the paper, and getting very red in the face. 

” No,” replied the earl, putting up his hand to wave back the 
document. ” 1 was not aware that any letter would be addressed 
to you, but no doubt the Department understands its business. I 
suppose— and 1 should have expected it — they wish yon to give 
them some intormation in regard to Mr. Barton’s latest interviews 
with you. You are not astonished at that? 1 assume they have in- 
formed you that my nephew has come to himself, and that his 
statement renders it impossible to doubt any longer that poor dear 
Barton, whom you and I were maligning for running away, was 
the victim of that murder in the Regent Circus?” 

The earl spoke very calmly, with his eye fixed on Mr. Joseph 
Pollard; and when he ceased speaking he turned his glance on the 
younger partner, as if he would at once have penetrated and fas- 
cinated them both. 

The fact that Lord Tilbury had recovered his senses and given 
this important information was a fresh shock to the nerves of the 
partners. 

” Mr. Sontag tells us generally that Barton was murdered,” said 
Mr. Joseph, sulkily, ” but not that the Earl of Tilbury had made 
any such statement.” 

” That, and other information, establishes the fact. In these 
circumstances i instructed the police to offer in my name a large 
reward for the discovery of the perpetrators of that most horrible 
crime, and one of my objects in coming here was to direct you to 
withdraw that advertisement, which you know 1 never authorized, 
and to render the police all the assistance in your pow’^er in bringing 
the murderers to justice.” 

There was not a flush of excitement in his cheek, not a trace of it 
in his voice, as he uttered these words. 

‘‘ My lord, we had withdrawn the advertisement and the charges 
against Mr. Barton— 1 expect before you had taken any action, 
said Mr. Charles, with a malicious smile on his face. 

” Indeed?” said the earl, carelessly. 

“Yes, my lord, for a very good reason. T7e had found the 
papers.” He glanced sidewise at the peer. 

The earl started. 

“ Found the papers! Wliere are they?” 

“ Here, my lord, in our possession. They had been mislaid; they 
were found this morning in this very room. We have them safe 
enough.” 

The earl noticed, without seeming to do so, the malice of Mr. 
Pollard’s smile. 

“lam very glad to hear it,” replied the earl; and glancing round 
the room, “ 1 suppose,” he said, “ they are in that large bag— but 
no— it is impossible that such a bulk of documents as that could 
have been overlooked.” 

Mr. Charles Pollard bit his lip, and his partner’s eyes fell, but the 
elder replied, 

“ They are locked up in a safe place, mv lord.” 

“1 am delighted,” cried the earl; and though the tone was a 


A "WEEK OE PASSIOi^■. 


207 


exaggerated, there was no doubt his heart went with it. “ May 
1 ask if that mortgage is ready for signature? 1 should like to have 
the matter settled at once. 1 can execute it now.” 

” It— it— is not ready, my lord; and after the manner in which 
you have acted, which ai)pears to be quite inconsistent with any 
further friendly relations between your lordship and ourselves, you 
will hardly be surprised if we feel ourselves Pound to decline to 
render you any further assistance in these matters. Acting for the 
Countess of Tilbury, we must request you at once to make up the 
sums advanced 3mu on her behalf, and to clear her interest at Linton 
from the charge that lies upon it. We know the request is prema- 
ture, and perhaps inconvenient, but we are obliged to act in the in- 
terest of our client.” 

In delivering this speech the elder Pollard assumed his loudest 
and most insolent tone, into which he endeavored to introduce a 
note of fine saicasm and signally failed. 

The earl smiled. 

“ Oh!” he said, quietly. “ "You have forestalled my own wishes 
and intentions, Mr. Pollard, in the most gratifying manner; and ex- 
pecting— and even hoping — that you might make such an intimation 
to me, 1 have — also without consulting you— taken steps to provide 
against this contiugeucy.” 

The two partners stared blankly at the smiling, imperturbable 
figure before them, for they had fully expected to see him at their 
feet. Mr. Joseph Pollard retorted, 

“ All the better, my lord, for we intend to lay the whole matter 
before the countess to-night.” He was playing their last card. 

- ” Nay, gentlemen, 1 am sure you will not do that,” said the peer, 
smiling, with the most provoking coolness. 

“ We shall most certainly!” said Mr. Joseph Pollard, with a 
stubborn and brutal emphasis. 

” Before you contradict me so rudel}^” said the earl, with a cold, 
stern inflection of voice, and a look that made the senior partner 
quail, ” you will allow me to set forth the reasons of my confidence. 
In the first place,” he said, taking a letter from his pocket and 
throwing it carelessly on the table, on which Mr. Pollard’s arm was 
resting, “ theie is a letter from Mr. Hackluyt— ” 

” 31r. Hackluyt!” cried the two partners together, with visible 
uneasiness. 

” Stating,” continued the earl, without taking any notice of the 
interruption, “ that he is prepared and intends to-morrow on my 
behalf to^ take up my obligations and pay off the charges at the 
Caledonian Bank, thus releasing my sister’s mortgage, which will 
then become void and of no effect.” 

” The original is in our hands, however!” said Mr. Pollard, with 
a sinister smile. 

” He also states that he will hand you £55,D00 of United States 
bonds in substitution of those alleged to have been lost; but as 
you admit you have found them, that will, happily, be unneces- 
sar}*, and 1 now believe in any case would be unsafe. His solicitors. 
Knox, Masterman tfcBullen, who within the past hour have become 
mine, will prepare a iresh mortgage of my Kensington property for 
a large amount, and to-morrow will present you an order to hand 


208 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


over to them all papers and documents of mine which are lying iE 
your possession, and will pay you a sum which will more than cover 
any claims j^ou can possibly have against me." 

The astonishment and chagrin of the partners became more and 
more evident as each sentence tell from the earl’s lips in clear, firm 
tones, sharpened by a fine sarcastic emphasis, which he knew so 
well how to impart to them. It appeared that they were even to be 
denied the pleasure of a revenge. 

The natural brutality which lay at the bottom of Mr. Joseph Pol- 
lard’s niature got the better or the worse of him as he became con- 
scious how cleverly the peer had outgeneraled them by his strategic 
march in the rear. 

He tried on a little lough sarcasm of his own, but it was of the 
kind which is a part of the vulgar repertory of Billingsgate. 

" They won’t get them," he said; ‘‘ there are a good many ac- 
counts to settle before you get those papers. So, my lord, you have 
been to Mr. HacKluyt, to whom we introduced you, behind our 
backs? We should never have expected that of a nobleman, or any 
one else pretending to be a gentleman. We were under the impres- 
sion that we were dealing with a man of honor, or we should have 
taken care to protect ourselves." 

If a flush passed swiftly over the peer’s cheek, he showed no other 
sign of anger. His lips were still curved in a smile, but, had the 
two men taken the pains to mark it, they would have found it a 
very terrible one. 

"Fortunately, sir," he said, coolly, " I had ceased to be under 
any such impression in regard to either of you, and 1 have acted ac- 
cordingly; and 1 can hardly consent to accept your judgment upon 
any question of honor. I naturally took steps to protect myself 
against two knaves who were trying to ruin me." 

Both the men were furious, and seemed about to speak together, 
but the earl held up his hand with an imperious gesture, and his 
eyes flashed fire. 

“Silence!" he cried; "do you dare to defend yourselves? I 
will show you that 1 do not speak lightly, or condescend to mere 
vulgar irritation. 1 speak seriously. Will either of you venture to 
deny that 1 am addressing two men— solicitors of the High Court of 
Justice— who have been guilty of embezzling a vast sum of money 
from an estate intrusted to their hands— who conspired together to 
swindle me in order to cover up their own frauds, and who forged 
ray name to transfers of shares? 1 know it all— 1 know it all — and 
1 have proof enough to justify immediate action. Nay, more, 1 
- have now a clear insight into your devilish scheme. You could 
easily have raised me that money it you had chosen, so Mr. Hack- 
luyt assures me, at the very time when you pretended it was not to 
' be found on any terras. 1 understand now — unhappily, too late — 
what your object was. You concocted that arrangement with my 
sister in order to involve me so deeply in your crimes that my mouth 
might be shut, my eyes closed, my hands tied to your own long- 
coiitinued frauds and robberies; and then, 1 believe in my heart, 
even yesterday you would have made me the accomplice of some 
other iniquity yet to be disclosed. Happily, your machinations 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


209 


hare failed, and it is not you, but I,' who hold the key of the posi- 
tion; attempt to seize it if you daie!” 

The peer’s eyes, now cold and stern, fixed the two solicitors, 
whose pale faces had lengthened, while they stared at him blank 
and silent, their under-jaws dropped, their breath painfully coming 
and going. 

The earl paused a moment. Neither of them tried to speak. The 
blow had crushed them, and vile as they were, their pride would 
not let them throw themselves at his feet and plead for mercy. 

“ Now, Mr. Pollard,” said the peer, addressing the elder, ” do 
you repeat your threat of sending information to the countess to- 
night? Unless you give me your word that you will keep silent on 
that matter, and hand over those papers without any further 
tiouble, 1 will send for a policeman and give you into custody im- 
mediately.” 

Both the men shrunk before the earl’s eyes, and a cold shiver 
seemed to pass through them at these words. They knew the peer to 
be quite capable of executing his threat; and the very idea of being 
within the iron grip of the law, on whatever charge, completely 
frightened and subdued them, with that horrible sense of guiltiness 
which was locked up in their breasts. Adieu the ” Vera ” and all 
chance of escape, if the earl were not appeased! 

” 1 don’t know what your lordship means by using such language 
to us,” said Joseph Pollard, with a cowed, sullen air, very" difterent 
from that he had been affecting. ” But we have no desire to part 
with your lordship on any but amicable terms. Of cou'-se, it you 
don’t wish it, nothing shall be intimated to the countess, and we will 
carry out your lordship’s instructions as to your papers to-morrow".” 

The peer saw that it went sorely against the flesh for the elder 
partner to say this and the younger to assent to it; but his glance did 
not for one moment relax its sternness, while a smile of contempt 
was on his lips. 

” It is at least as well,” he said, rising, ‘‘ that we should under- 
stand each other. You have grossly deceived me, and villainously 
wronged me. You have been the means of drawing me into a false 
and ignoble position. It you thought that that would give you a 
control over me you were egregiously mistaken. For my part, how- 
ever, enormous as have been my losses by you, 1 should be content 
to endure in silence the injuries 1 have justly sustained through my 
complicity with you, unless you drove me to lake action in self- 
defense, or unless 1 found myself obliged in justice to others to 
bring home to you the consequences of some greater crime. 1 wish 
you good-day.” 

He turned on his* heel. 

Neither of the partners moved. They were crushed by his last 
words, by his manner, by his audacious superiority, by their own 
weakness. Mr. Charles Pollard no longer accompanied him to the 
stairs chatting and smiling. The proud earl opened the door for 
himself, and, without casting a glance behind him, nodding, how- 
ever, kindly to Mr. Gra 3 ''son, who really was in a very unfit slate to 
appreciate the conipliment, he seemed to shake the dust oft his feet 
as he went from the threshold which he would never cross again. 
There was a light of triumph in his eye. Mr. Hackluyt had met 


210 


A WEEK OE PASSION. 


him with a readiness far beyond his expectations, and had even vol- 
unteered to torestall the arrangements lie proposed. Thus, though 
at an immense saciifice, he had relieved himself of a great load. 

Still, the expiation of his sin was not complete, and the sword of 
Damocles quivered menacingly above liis head. 

No sooner had the earl turned his back than Mr. Grayson, whose 
state of unwonted excitement had been observed by his younger 
fellow-clerks with astonishment and some raillery, entered the room 
■where his principals remained in a condition of imj^otent rage, 
closed the door behind him, and, drawing a dirty nandkerchief 
from his pocket, began to blubber. 

“ What on earth does this mean, Mr. Grayson?” cried Mr. Charles 
Pollard, angrily, turning upon the unhappy clerk the pent-up stream 
of his fury. ” What the devil is the matter with you — eh? Why 
don t you speak?” 

“ Oii-h-h! Mr. Charles!” sobbed the old clerk out ot the depths of 
his handkerchief. 

“Why, you’re drunk, sir!” said the elder. “Get out of the 
room directly, and never let me see your face again.” 

Instead of obeying this command, Grayson removed the damp 
linen, and disclosed the very feature which had become the object 
ot Mr. Pollard’s just antipathy, red, swollen, running with tears, 
while his lips, writhing in the vain effort to articulate, exhibited the 
few* remaining teeth which garnished his gums in a ghastly man- 
ner. He caught at the back of a chair to keep himself from swing- 
ing round and round. Then, pulling himself up, he managed to 
ejaculate, in a voice that ended in a sort of feeble, broken crow, 

“ Doo-n’t turn me out, sir! —most important in— information. 
Mr. G — Garbett’s — shcoundrel, gen — gen’lemen!” 

Joseph Pollard looked at him sharply tor an instant, and, nodding 
to his partner, said, 

“Sit down, Mr. Grayson— sit down. You seem ill. Pull your 
■v\’its together, man, and tell us what you’ve got to say quickly.” 

“ Mis-ser Joseph,” cried Grayson, with a fresh explosion of grief, 
“ Mis-ser Charles— sir — ’fraid, sir — 1— I’ve betrayed you!” 

Now botii the partners started, and eagerly looked at the miser- 
able object before them. 

“ 1— I didn’t mean to do it— sir —ge— gen’lemen!— oldest clerk in 
the esh— es— esh— shtablishment— I ’sure you— did — didn’t mean to 
let out auy she~shecretsh— b— b — but Garbett’sh— a detective — 
Shot— Shot— Shcotland Yard— asked me— help to— dish— dishcover 
where Barton had gone to wish— shose — shose papers —shtrict con- 
fidensh — Mis-ser Pollard— said— said it wash— on your account. Told 
him, sir— Mis-ser Pollard— old confidenshul clerk— wouldn’t— 
wouldn’t dishclose auy shecrets of our firm, sir. But~G—Gar- 
bettsh— shly— fellow- ashked— me quest— questions, an’ 1—1 told 
him, papersh — washn’t — couldn’t have been mishlaid— your room 
Mis-ser Joseph. Went lo lunsh with him— sir — and — and — very 
shly fellow— b’lieve he’s trying to make you ’sponsible— murder-- 
mu-u-rder, sir!” 

“ What?” shouted Mr. Joseph PMlard, who had listened with 
impatience to Mr. Grayson’s sentences, broken, even more than we 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 211 

hare indicated, by hiccoughs and sobs. “ What do you say, Gray- 
son? Did he tell you that?” 

“No— no!” said Grayson shaking his dead from side to side, 
and, having once set it going, like that of a crockery mandarin, 
finding the greatest difficulty in the world in stopping it again. 
” He did — din’t say sho— shay so — but — 1 — see what he's driving 
at— and oh! gen’lemen— Mr. Joseph — Mr. Charles— I’m very sorry — 
gai-e him a losh— a Mot of in-informatiou — ’traid I’ve done 
wuong — ” 

” You internal fooi!” said Mr, Charles Pollard; ” you deserve to 
have your head knocked ott with a poker;” and, that being the 
only visible w^eapon at hand, Mr. Charles looked as if he really 
were tempted to pick it up and use it. ” Tell us what you’ve told 
him. ” 

” Stay, Charlie,” whispered the elder Pollard, ” remember this is 
a matter of life and death for us. Let me manage him.” And, 
going across the room to old Grayson, who was beginning to be 
sobered a little by excitement and the awakening of his conscience 
to the breach of duty he had committed, he gradually extracted from 
him the whole story of Mr. Garbett’s maneuvers and of the infor- 
mation Mr, Grayson had imparted. It appeared that, before the 
powerful stimulant he had taken had begun to operate, Mr. Gray- 
son’s suspicions had been aw’akened by one or two questions that 
Mr. Garbett, in the keen ardor of his blood hound chase, had put to 
him, for Grayson was b}" no means deficient in a certain lawyer-like 
sharpness; and wffien he returned to the office, and the tier}' sherry 
began to develop its strength, his brain, in its superheated state, 
suddenly conceived the idea that Mr. Garbett was trying to fix a 
crime on the solicitors, whom he, Grayson, had served for ever 
thirty 3 'ears — lather and son— and so he had decided to make a clean 
breast of it. There was certainly something phenomenal in the fact 
that Mr. Garbett’s (as he thought, guarded) questions should have 
suggested such an idea to Grayson drunk which probably would not 
have occurred to Grayson sober, and there really had been very little 
said on which to bufld his suspicions; but there was quite enough 
to alarm men alrej^dy on the qiiimve, who, moreover, were begin- 
ning to feel that depressing sensation that the Fates are hunting 
them, which enfeebles all the forces, and especially paralyzes hope. 
They speedily turned poor Grayson out of the room, sending him 
home in a cat to prevent suspicion, with a mild reproof, and began 
rapidly to make their preparations for evading the net which their 
fears and the incidents of the day only too clearly showed was being 
drawn around them. 


CHAPTER XVlll. 

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE AND THE TRIUMPH OF DUTY. 

When Lady Blanche and Mrs. Barton reached the mansion in 
Portman Square eight o’clock had just struck, but the earl had 
f)rdered dinner to be delayed for half an hour. He was feverish and 
disquieted at Iheir non-appearance. The day had been for him, like 
the day before, one of trying emotions. He had succeeded beyond 


212 


A AVEEK OF PASSIOJT. 


his expectations in that struggle to keep his honor, outwardly, at 
Jeast, unimpaired. The Pollards lay vanquished and bound at his 
feet. Before to-morrow night he would be able to say that he had 
repaired his fault so tar as the countess was concerned, and that he 
had proved his repentance by a great sacrifice, for he meant to bear 
the loss himself, and leave the two villains to their own consciences, 
Nevertheless, he was too sagacious to indulge in the lightness of 
victory. To-night his heart was full of the expiation due to other 
victims of his faults. In asking Mrs. Barton to his house, he had 
thought of that. This was the first significant act of that expiation; 
and the delay in the return of his daughter, envoy extraordinary of 
the mission, to which his mind, in its intensified sensibility, attached 
supreme importance, troubled him. In vain he endeavored to calm 
his excitement by walking up and down the boudoir where he was 
awaiting th( ir arrival, or by casting his eyes over a pile of evening 
journals and French newspapers which lay on a Florentine table be- 
side his easy-chair. He could not be happy until he had taken Mrs. 
Barton’s hands in his, and testified to her, by his voice and manner, 
that he was grieved and repentant, if, for however short a time, he 
had allow^ed himself to question her husband’s integrity. But even 
then would be have drunk the whole of the bitter cup of repent- 
ance? 

The cordial which Lady Blanche had administered to the poor 
broken-hearted lady had exercised a wonderfully inspiriting effect 
upon the patient. It she had lost a husband, she had gained a 
daughter, and such a daughter! Humanity must be at its last gasp 
when all things become equally indifferent;" when the soul can\Wke 
up to no provocation of love or ambition or pride or hope; when 
the heart actually cherishes the void created by the loss of some 
precious object, and will not permit one inch of that vacuum to be 
filled by any substituted comfort. But here, in the midnight of an 
utterly hopeless sorrow, the sky suddenly filled with a luminous 
brightness, and she learned that the most secret, and therefore most 
daring of her ambitions, was fulfilled. Lady Blanche, the proudest 
and noblest beauty in the galaxy of English life, loved the son who 
was the pride and very apple of his mother’s eye. She did not think 
of obstacles. She knew Lady Blanche’s high, dominating spirit her 
incalculable force of character, and she felt that whatever Blanche 
willed must and would be done. And indeed the young lady took 
the elder w’oman in hand and guided her like a child. She told her 
that, terrible as was the blow^ tliat had struck her down, the noble 
spirit still had duties to perform, hopes to cherish, a future that 
must be bravely met; that strength came by testing and that only 
craven souls succumbed to trial She delicately used the i)ainfu! 
and dangerous effects of their common grief upon the son’s mind to 
quicken the mother’s drooping energies, and rouse her to the 
woman’s duty of sooth and comfort. Thus, by exciting all the best 
feelings of her friend’s nature, she managed to revive, gently and 
feebly at first, but by and by, from the contact of her ow'n vigorous 
enthusiasm with intensifying effect, the benumbed fibers of the fro- 
zen spirit. One of the marvels of our mysterious humanity is the 
subtle influence on the body of elements so imp ilpable, so spiritual, 
as thought and sentiment The prostrate system, which no apothe- 


A ’^VEEK OF PASSIOX. 213 

caiy’s medicine can aSect, will be revived and healed by a word, 
an idea, a note of music, the voice of the presence of love. 

To Mrs. Barton as to her son the gentle ministry of Lady Blanche 
had brought a spiritual elixir. Her eye had brightened, and her 
lace had put on a more calm, resigned, and forcetul-looking dig- 
nity ot sorrow. Strength was beginning to come back at the touch 
of hope. 

So that by the time she reached Portman Sc^uare, Lady Blanche, 
who had her own plan of action sketched out in her mind, and was 
bent on executing it after her own conceit, had succeeded in per- 
suading the widow that she was strong enough to support the meeting 
with the earl and the fatigue of a quiet dinner, although at first she 
had begged to be allowed to spend the evening alone in her room. 
The young lady’s programme, however, was arbitrary, and was based 
not only on a consideration of the salutary effect of rousing Mrs. 
Barton from her torpor; she wished to strike, and strike forcibly, 
some chords in the heart of the earl. For her quick, active mind had 
been reflecting upon certain words which had escaped the lips of 
George Barton, and her feminine intuition had already gone a long 
■way further ahead of the facts with which she was acquainted than 
was consistent with \.\iq principia of Baconian induction. This 
young but cunning diplomatist remembered that as yet her father 
had no knowledge of the devastation wrought on Mrs. Barton’s 
face and figure by the shock she had sustained. The fatal telegram 
from Pollard & Pollard, which the widow had shown to her, aroused 
her indignation, and brought a Hush ot shame to her cheek. 

She could not believe that her father had had anything to do with 
that cruel action— one so utterly out of harmony with the old-fash- 
ioned chivalry of his conduct, especially toward women. She 
guessed that he had not even heard ot it. If so, why, she asked her- 
self, with an astute suspicion, should Pollard & Pollard have sent 
such a heartless message without her father’s sanction? Why was 
it that the earl had at first accepted the solicitors’ theory, credited a 
dishonorable libel on the elder Barton, forbidden any communica- 
tion with his son; and now repudiated the suspicion, took George 
Barton into close confidence, and offered Mrs, Barton an act of hos- 
pitality which Lady Blanche, who had remarked the anxiety he felt 
about it, shrewdly attributed to its true motive — reparation? There- 
fore this young lady, with a diplomatic indifierence which one can- 
not too strongly condemn, as to the feelings of the parental subject 
of her political action, had designer* a surprise for the earl, in wliich 
she hoped herself to surprise some precious indications of those se- 
crets which he and George Barton— poor masculine mortals {--fond- 
ly imagined they could keep concealed from a woman’s wit, and 
that woman Lady Blanche Layton! And as for poor Mrs. Barton, 
she was a pawn, or a queen, or anything you like that is simply 
stationed about at another’s will in this cunning game. 

In accordance wfith her plan, Lady Blanche did not go to her father 
on entering the house, but sending him a message that dinner 
would be served at half past eight, and that Mrs, Barton would be 
there, she hurried the good lady to the room w’hich had been as- 
signed to her, next to Blanche's own, and assisted her wu'th her own 
hands to arrange her dress and hair, which the young girl began to 


214 


A Vv'EEK OF PASSION. 


think looked ver}^ beautiful in its silvery whiteness over the soft, 
araber tint of the sorrowful face. Then, choosing for herself a 
simple white dress, high in the neck, and without any other orna- 
ment than a string and cross of pearls which her mother had been 
accustomed to wear on only one day in the year— the jour des morts 
— Lady Blanche took the widow’s arm and led her to the boudoir 
where the earl was waiting. Though it was still daylight wdthciit, 
the room was lit by a Dresden lamp, the radiance of which was sub- 
dued by a gorgeous Japanese shade, so that w^hen the earl rose and 
came forward, raising his eyes from a book on which they had been 
fixed for some time under the light, although he was nol reading, 
he did not, for a moment, distinguish anything beyond a dark fig- 
ure in mourning, and the whiteness of a widow’s cap. But when 
he took the lady’s hand in both his own, ami was just about to open 
his lips with some kind sentiment which he knew so well how to 
put into a refined and delicate form, his keen gray eye lighted up 
with startled surprise, a nervous thrill went through his frame, and 
for just a second or two he evidently struggled for utterance. 

“ Mis. Barton! is it possible?” he gasped out. ’ 

I'here was quite an agony in his tone, but he stopped short. The 
words had been wrung from him by surprise, and his chivalrous 
tact promptly told him how painful they must be. He g’anced for 
an instant reproachfully at Lady Blanche, as if to say, ‘‘ Why. did 
you not warn me?” but she did not blench in the least. Holding 
on still to Mrs. Barton’s arm, she gave it a little pressure of encour- 
agement, for she had done her best to string up the widow’s nerves 
to the proper key for this meeting. In such circumstances women 
are readier, and often even stronger, than men. Emotion is their 
element; their fiber is finer; it responds much more quickly than the. 
masculine fiber to the touch of thought and feeling; and hence they 
can express themselves with greater, sometimes even with too latuf, 
facility. Therefore at this moment Mrs. Barton had the advantage 
of the earl. There was no surprise at his surprise; that she had an- 
ticipated. Her moral position was stronger because he had, in per- 
mitting a slur to be cast on her husband’s memory, done her an in- 
jury— whether unwittingly or not did not matter — his invitation was 
a kind of tacit admission that he felt himself in the wronjr. Kow 
her turn had come to be generous. She said sweetly, wdiile she 
brought up her other hand on the earl’s, which felt icy to the touch 
and gave his a pressure which clearly meant a w^arm forgiveness, 

“A oil scarcely recognize me, eari? I am so changed! Sorrow 
has indeed dealt hardly with my poor body!” 

” Hardly!” he replied, echoing the word. “ My dear Mrs. Bar- 
ton, can you ever forgive me?” 

” Forgive you, earl? What have you done, except to allow your 
faith for a little wdiile to be disturbed by appearances? That— 1 
have already forgiven.” 

What have 1 done? Ah! you little know—” he cried, in a hol- 
low voice, and then Blanche, keenly watching him from under her 
long lashes, saw that he checked something he was going to say in 
his usual lightning-like fashion, as, changing his tone, he continued 
— ‘‘how deeply, in my blindness and &tupid*ity, 1 have wronged 
your husband’s memory!” 


A WEEK OF PASSIOX. 


215 


‘‘ Oh!” said Lady Blanche to herself, “ that is not what he was 
going to say.” She felt tor the fatal telegram wbicli was in her 
pocket, and was tempted to draw it out and ask him to denj^ any 
tesponsibility for it, but readvising herself, she determined to hold 
it over for a later moment. 

“ 1 can not judge you harshly, earl; you must have had grounds 
for your conduct. It v as those who misled you who were really to 
blame.” 

He shook his head. He could not trust himself to speak, for he 
. w^as perfectly alive to the danger, in this moment of trouble and 
surprise, of uttering something that might compromise him. The 
widow's words were stabs, and sharp ones. What grounds had he 
had? Hone, except the suggestions of two base scoundrels to whom 
he had listened only too readily, because his judgment and gener- 
osity and candor had all been warped by a sense of his own unhap- 
py error. And what was contracting his heart and creating that 
strange pallor in his face which made Lady Blanche just then regret 
that she had ventured, with her inexperience, to play with those edged 
tools of passion, which only a few master-hands are strong ecougl’, 
or cunning enough, to wield? What 'was deepening the wuinkles 
on his brow and causing such a strange light in his eyes? It was 
the feeling that these terrible ravages of grief added a frightful 
weight to the already intolerable burden of the consequences directly 
following from his first wTong act. But for that, would Barton be 
now an impalpable corpse, and his wife a shocking wreck? Yet the 
young ladjq while her mind was puzzling over her suspicions, could 
not help adiniring the dexterous delicacy of her father’s answer. 

‘‘ You must not be too good to me,” he said, gently, as he took 
31rs. Barton’s hand and placed it on his arm to lead her to the din- 
ing-room. ” Permit me to taste some of the bitterness of regret, if 
only as a salutary remedy for my unpardonable blunder.” 

In the presence of the servants it was, happily, impossible to 
pursue the painful subjects which 'were so actively occupying their 
minds, during a Ineal which was of necessity a mere formal and 
perfunctory parade, for the emotions they had experienced were not 
of those which sharpen appetite. The earl was preoccupied and 
gloomy. Every now and then he stole a melancholy glance at the 
altered face of his guest. The silvery hair seemed to him like a 
flame which burned into his heart. When dinner was ended Mrs. 
Barton prayed to be allowed to retire. He gave her his arm, and 
conducted her to the door of her room. 

• ”1 shall see my godson to-night,” he said. ” It may be a com- 
fort to you to know that at this moment he is of incalculable service 
to me — that 1 could sooner afford to do without my right hand— for 
jt has turned out providentially that he knows all that his father 
knew of those matters of vital importance which brought him to 
London. We are now engaged together in the task of vindicating 
justice and the memory of the dead. It is a painful duty with 
'which 1 charge myself on your behalf, and rest assured that 1 shall 
hesitate at no sacrifice to accomplish it.” 

Lady Blanche, standing by her father, heard these words. She 
saw the faint flush of gratification which tinged for a moment the 
pale features of the mother, but she noted 'w’itii greater care and in- 


216 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


terest the earl’s language, not only because its panegyric was sweet 
to her ear, but because again it revealed a new item of intelligence. 
TV hat was this business, not of an ordinary nature, as sne had sup- 
posed, but *' of vital importance,” which liad brought the elder 
Barton up to London— which was now occupying the earl and 
George Barton together— and which appeared to he unmanning them 
both? 

The earl, who had gone to the library, had not sat there many 
minutes when Lady Blanche entered, bringing him a cup of tea, to 
give her coanienance. Her face was pale, but determineU; the cup 
trembled in her hand. She found her father silting moodily in an 
aim-chair, his head inclined on his hand, an attitude which she 
knew implied dejection; for his natural pride and vivacity kept his 
head and figure erect through any amount of physical or mental 
exertion, unless his spirit was bowed down by some extraoi dinary 
emotion. In this posture she had often seen him when he was 
suflering from the grief of her mother’s loss, or, since then, once 
or twice after some scandalous escapade of his eldest son. For noth- 
ing touched this man, whom we know^ to have been guilty of an act 
of moral ignominy, more than any attaint of his name or ihe honor 
of his house. In such lare moments of depression as his attitude 
now signified, hers were the only steps that might with impunity 
break upon his solitude, her voice the only one which did not grate 
unpleasantly on his ear. 

When Lady Blanche came in, her father glanced up without 
moving — a fact in itself significant, since he always set his sons an 
example of chivalrous and punctilious politeness to women. He 
tried to smile, but the smile died away before it was born, and left 
an almost ghastly contraction of the lips. Then he motioned to her 
to come near him, and laying down the cup on the table, she threwr 
herself on a low ottoman by his side. 

“Blanche,” he said, reproachfully, “ why did you not prepare 
me for this dreadful change in poor Mrs. Barton? It was rather 
thoughtless of you to allow me to be surprised in that fashion. It 
nearly knocked me over. 1 could hardly have believed it possible 
that in two or three daj'^s such a fine woman could have been so 
terribly altered by grief. She looks twenty years older. It is 
dreadful — quite dreadful!” 

“ Dreadful indeed, papa,” she echoed, in a deep voice. “ And 
it would be more terrible if you— I mean if any of us had, even in- 
advertently, contribuled to it.” 

There was an under-meaning in her tone which his fine sense im- 
mediately perceived. He had been looking on the ground; he 
quickly fixed his eyes on her face, elevating his eyebrows inquir- 
ingly. She saw he was startled. 

“ What do you mean?” he said. 

“ My lord, did you know anything of this telegram?” 

She held out the fatal slip of pink paper. 

Taking it from her hand, he rapidly read it. She saw his eye 
dilate, his nostrils begin to quiver, his lips to compress tightly. For 
a moment he appeared hardly to credit his eyes. Then he read it 
again slowly; his breath came and went painfully; his face blazed 
up in a sudden wrath; and drawing a long breath, as it he w'ere 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


217 

gathering all his forces tor some mighty effort, he cried out, in a 
voice loud, strident, intense, as if he had thrown into it all the moral 
energy of his being, 

“ God damn them!” 

It was not an oath. It was a solemn prayer. The words, in any 
case, are little more than a popular, reduced edition of the commina- 
tion service, which 1 remember was in the Book of Common Prayer 
the last time I looked at it, and was, 1 believe, the production of 
some very reverend and holy persons. It is their too frequent and 
ingenious application by the \ ulgar to inadequate cases which has 
given them the bitter flavor of profanity in the mouths of well 
regulated persons; but 1 trust in the present case, where they ex- 
pressed the violent revolt of the earl’s entire manhood against the 
creatures who had launched this dastardly bolt at the widow ot the 
man they had murdered, the Kecording Angel had no difficulty in 
contributing the obliterative tear. Lady Blanche, who could see 
and appreciate the feeling with which they were uttered, was not 
shocked by them, as she would have been under any other circum- 
stances; for there was a genuine solemnity about them— a healthy 
outburst of indignation with which she sympathized— and, more- 
over, they relieved her mind of a great anxiety. It was clear the 
earl had never heard of, nor seen, this message before. 

Still, having thus relieved himself, after the fashion in the East 
(only in a concentrated triple extract form), where a man, after call- 
ing down curses on his enemy and all his belongings in the most 
dreadfully minute and diabolical manner, suddenly calms down 
and takes a chibouk, the earl mastered his emotion, and said in a 
voice which was gentle, though it still trembled with the after- 
throes of that mighty eruption, 

‘‘Forgive me, Blanche; I could not restrain myself. These 
scoundrels — ” He bit his lip. Again she saw that he had checked 
the utterance ot some vivid thought. “ It was so heartless and 
thoughtless!” 

” Yes, papa. You were saying ‘ These scoundrels ’ — by that, of 
course, you mean Pollard & Pollard?” 

‘‘Nothing, Blanche, nothing,” he replied, quickly. ‘‘ My head 
is a little troubled fo-night— naturally— after seeing that poor lady 
— these solicitors are such fools— they really annoy me — fancy their 
having nu more sense than to send such a cruel, stupid message as 
that! Of course it seems as if I were responsible.” 

So he ran on; but Lady Blanche thought tlie symphony was alto- 
gether too weak for the overture, and she was not going to be put 
off with that. 

‘‘ Papa,” she said, with a slight severity in her tone, ‘‘you did 
not say ‘ fools ’ — you said ‘ scoundrels;’ and you know you began 
by saying” — she gave three nods — “something very much 
stronger I ’ ’ 

The fine diplomatic nose ot the earl scented danger. Nay, his 
ear and his eye detected that there was something working in his 
daughter’s mind. Was it merely a vague curiosity? AVas it a 
feminine intuition of w'hich he, an old expert, knew the miraculous 
power? Or was it possible that George Barton^might indiscreetly 
hare given his mother some hints which she and Lady Blanche had 


218 


A WEEK OE PASSIOK. 


been working out together? The very idea of this sent a cold 
shiver up his spine, and for a moment he hesitated between the 
policy ot turning oJtt the subject altogether, which seemed to be the 
ficifest course to take, or of probing to ascertain the exact state of 
the adversary’s knowledge. The crucial anxiety of his situation 
made him choose the latter course, his old diplomatic rule being, at 
all risks to ascertain the full strength of your adversary’s position. 
"We wish we could report his thoughts with their natural rapidity. 

He said to her in the gentlest possible manner, with a touch of 
irony in his tone and look, 

“ Well, my dear Blanche, am 1 to be had up before your 
majesty’s tribunal, wuth a dictionary under my arm, to verify the 
exact degree ot intensity with which my epithets are to be inter- 
preted? Or is your majesty pleased to demand any further informa- 
tion? Or what is your majesty’s pleasure?” 

” My lord, this is no joking matter; this is serious — ” 

” What is serious?’’ interrupted the eail, vivaciously, and, 
Blanche thought, looking her through and through. 

” Why, all that is now happening— all this horror about Mr. Bar- 
ton— this frightful mistake about Mis. Barton, tor which, of course, 
my lord, you are morally responsible— all these mysterious conver- 
sations with George Barton— all his sorrow and trouble — and all 
your evident anxiety, and your disagreement with your solicitors; 
it’s all a dreadful mystery—” 

Of course, when a young and inexperienced lady undertakes to 
measure swords with a veteran diplomatist, she should at least take 
care to follow the first elementary rule ot diplomacy, and not give 
the adversary any information, or even any hint, of that which she 
desires to keep secret. 

Tlie earl was down upon her at once, and with some severity. 

” Why, my dear child, what on earth have you to do wu'th these 
matters? 1 assume 1 can measure and meet my moral responsibility 
without having recourse to the advice of my daughter — cetat. 18 — 
and even manage to select and do business with my agents without 
explaining my conduct to her. And why should you question me 
about the subject of my conversation with a young gentleman 
whom, by the way, you quite too familiarly designate as George 
Barton, or bother yourself about his sorrows and troubles? Tell 
me, Blanciie, what is it that is prompting you to this indiscreet 
curiosity; tor 1 do you the justice to own you generally have some 
reason for what you do or say?” 

Lady Blanche saw in a moment that it she remained on this 
ground she was lost, and she dexterously transferred the entire con- 
flict from the arena of argument to that of emotion, where she knew 
the earl would be as little at home as an ostrich on the ice. 

She suddenly slipped on her knees at his feet and put her arms 
round him, and at that moment hei mother’s cross, quite inad- 
vertently on the part of the wearer, met his eye, and sent a shoot of 
pain through his heart. For he remembered well the purpose to 
which it used to be kept sacred, and it struck him as peculiar that 
Blanche should have worn it on this particular night. All experi- 
enced and veteran men of the world shrink from sentiment and 
emotion, in the first place because they are disturbing to the calm 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


219 


which cynicism aflects, and in the second place because they know 
them to be perilous to that perfect selt-command which is the essen- 
tial quality of an accomplished worldliness. And this -white cross, 
as well as Blanche’s manner, gave him a sort of vague presentiment 
that there was something serious and emotional in 'the air, like the 
electric state of the atmosphere which precedes an earthquake or a 
storm. 

“ Papa,” she said, ” you must not be stern and ironic with me, 
for 1 love you loo dearly to bear it without pain, and you know' 1 
am all that is left to you — of — of — ” her hand suddenly sought the 
cross, and she pressed it to her lips. ” Remember, 1 am no longer 
a little girl, 1 am a woman; and lam capable now of understanding 
the causes of your anxieties. 1 can not shut my eyes to the tact 
that 3 ’ou have them— that they are grave and -wmrrying — that they 
are trying your nerves and making 30 U lose your self-command.” 

The earl started; he had been looking, as she spoke, into those 
deep, lustrous eyes which met his cold, suspicious, inquisitive gaze 
with equal tenderness and resolution. Was it possible that she was 
so clairvoyant — that he had so far betrayed himself? He was an- 
noyed at his own weakness, as iSamson must have been when he 
became conscious that day that his strength had gone from him, 
under so exiguous an instrumentality' as the scissors of Delilah. 

” Yes, my lord,” she w^ent on, in a stronger voice, noticing the 
movement, ” 1 have seen that you were nervous and troubled, and 
more deeply than can be accounted for by anything that appears on 
the surtace, and 1 should like to be a comfort to you, and a help — 
at least to share your worries— for to see you like this and not be 
able even to guess the cause of it almost breaks one’s heart.” Her 
two hands were now clasped upon the cross, and he saw a dewy 
dimness fill her eyes. 

He controlled an emotion which had begun to stir his heart, and 
said, dryly, 

” 1 was not aware that 1 had become a subject of such close study 
and analysis to my children — especially to you, my dear, -w'hose 
thoughts 1 had supposed to be engaged in much more entertaining 
and, for you, important studies, i'onr life is all before you, and 
you -will have quite enough 10 do in devoting all your attention and 
judgment, and the tact and cleverness which Ido not deny you pos- 
sess, to the paramount subject of your own future settlement in 
life, without concerning yourself w'ith your father’s anxieties, 01 
intervening in affairs svhich you could not possibly understtind, and 
in which your interference w'ould be futile, or perhaps mischievous. 

1 think, rny dear Blanche,” he added, kindly but firmly, as he 
touched her forehead with his lips, ‘‘ we had better not pursue this 
topic any further, and 1 should prefer that you did not recur to it 
again.” 

But she met his eye firmly. 

” JVly lord,” she said, “ your words are cruel; and though 1 know 
that my intelligence and experience may not be of the slightest use 
to you in your affairs, you forget that you are throwing aside what 
is, alas, the only source of affectionate sympathy -w'hich is left to 
you. My ambition would have been to try and fill my mother’s 
place in your life, but, my loid, 1 can not remain a mere spectator 


220 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


ol your trouble. You just now referred ironically to a duty wliicli 
1 owed to myself, and which you were good enough to say wa3 
quite enough to occupy my limited intelligence—” 

“ 1 did not say limited.” 

“ You implied it, and 1 admit it. 1 would much rather that my 
interests, or my happiness, had not entered into the question; 1 should 
like to have felt that 1 was deserving of your confidence, and capa- 
ble of offering you at least some of the sympathies of love; but since 
you put me to it, 1 must tell you that I have a deep personal inter- 
est in learning the nature of your troubles, and in their happy solu- 
tion.” 

“You?” he said, quickly. Then he thought for a moment; a 
curious mixture of anxiety and gladness animated his features, 
“ Oh! did you see Tilbury to-day, then? What has taken place?” 

“ Why, my lord,” she said, like a flash, “ what has Tilbury to 
do with your troubles?” 

Check to the king. 

“ There you are again,” he said, peevishly, and turning his eyes 
away from her clear gaze. “ Really, Blanche, this is unendurable! 
From what you know of me, do j^ou think it likely that 1 will 
submit to be cross-examined in this way by my youngest child?” 

“ Would it be so very strange, my lord, supposing your honor 
and happiness— and mine, too, were at stake— for m.e to question 
you? Ah! I remember now!” She pried out sharply, as if some 
sudden light had been let in upon her mind. “ Tilbury told me 
that old Mr. Barton had come up to London to settle the accounts 
of the Tilbury estates! Father— father — surely — it is not possible! 
There is nothing wrong in those accounts?” 

The shot was a chance shot, a singular inspiration, and it told 
with deadly effect, though the fair artillerist did not know why. 

An intense pallor whitened the earTs face; he caught her arm ex- 
citedly, and said, in a low, frightened voice, 

“ Why, Blanche, Blanche — what do you know? What have you 
heard? Who has been saying anything? What do you mean?” 

“ So there is something, my lord,” she said, brushing past all his 
queries, “ which involves our honor and happiness!” 

“ Pooh!” he ejaculated, angry and mortified at having been 
caught in so simple a trap. “ 1 have admitted nothing of the kind. 
1 only feared that some one had been gossiping about my affairs; 
and 1 can not allow that— 1 won’t allow that!” 

“ My lord, there is something — 1 know there is— something grave, 
serious, dreadful— something between you and George Barton — ■ 
something you are anxious to conceal— something which holds him 
back from having justice done on his father’s murderers! Do you 
know that it has nearly driven him mad?” 

Barton’s mysterious words had suddenly recurred to her : ‘ ‘ Scoun- 
drels, whose guilt it was not possible for you to prove without bring- 
ing shame upon some you respected and loved.” 

The peer turned upon his daughter as if he had been stung. 

“ What is that to you?” he said, fiercely. “What is George 
Barton to you? What does it matter to you whether ‘he is mad or 
sane?” 


A WEEK OF PASSION-. 221 

*• Oh father, father]” she cried out, in a voice of anguish, “1 
love him!” 

For an instant she glanced at his terrible face, and then she sunk 
down, still on her knees, crouching, with her head bent forA^ard 
and her face in her hands; and thus she waited, kbenly alive, ex- 
pectant, palpitating, for the blow^ which she felt must tall, not from 
his hand — it is French and Italian counts who strike women— but 
from his lips. 

Had she been the weeping Magdalen, whose attitude in a cele- 
brated picture she had unconsciously assumed, and he a Phar- 
isee, the peer could hardly have looked at her with a more piti- 
less scorn. The transition from the magnifrcent idea of Lord Til- 
bury to the commonplace reality of George Barton — we mean strict- 
ly from the point of view of a great English earl — was too prodigious 
not to shake the very foundations of his equanimity, and topple 
over the entire superstructure. His passions were boiling up, like 
a geyser suudenly uncovered by an earthquake. The flame that 
flashed in those cold, gray eyes of his was lurid as the blue light- 
ning — flashed we say —because the peculiarity of this man’s tempera- 
ment was the perfect natural balance between two great forces of 
pjassion and reason, the iron control which, by long years of ex- 
perience, the one had been able to establish over the other, and the 
phenomenal rapidity of the interaction between them. The flame 
died out in a moment; his face became dark as night. 

For a short time he was silent, passing in review, with marvelous 
quickness, the salient incidents of his recent interviews with George 
Barton, searching his keen, accurate memory for some word or gest- 
ure, some side hint that the young man might have let slip of his 
daring ambition; tor the earl could not possibly have guessed at the 
real facts — the scene in the Temple, for instance — and he naturally 
supposed that his daughter’s avowal ensued from a long-matured 
understanding, or, as he put it to himself, a prolonged course of 
deceit. He found it impossible to recall anything that even his sharp 
instincts could fasten upon, and he was forced to give the young 
man the undeserved credit of being one of the most discreet and 
clever diplomatists ft had ever been his lot to meet. That, how- 
ever, by no means appeased the severity of his judgment, and it cer- 
tainly increased the sense of danger. 

All his gratitude for the nobility of Barton’s conduct, all his own 
repentant feelings and generous emotions, his sworn obligations, the 
extorted trust and admiration of the past twenty-four hours were, 
at one sweep of the sponge, wiped off the calendar of his mind. 
The damnable fact alone remained that Barton had dared to love 
the Earl of Selby’s daughter; and the suspicion followed close, as 
the report follows the flash, that George was using the power he 
had acquired over the earl’s destinies to further his own audacious 
projects. 

Let any one consider how perfectly natural this suspicion was, 
and how intensely unfounded, and then lay up in his heart how 
perilous a thing it is to judge of the actions or motives of a fellow- 
man. 

For a little while, 1 say, he remained silent, raging and ponder- 


222 


A WEEK OF PASSTOK. 


ing. When he did speak, he showed what a profound wrath was 
burning in his soul, for he utterly forgot himself. 

He rose, and taking no notice of his daughter, paced the room, 
soliloquizing, 

“ By Heaven,” he said, bitterly, “ it seems as if every one were 
in a conspiracy to drive me mad! One thing after another— and 
this, the cruelest blow of all! The young whelp!” — Lady Blanche 
started and listened eagerly—” I could never have believed it pos- 
sible that such madness should have entered tils head. Humph! 
anything is possible with human beings except to be true and sin- 
cere; 1 have had bitter enough experience of that. But 1 thought 1 
was too old to be deceived. It is that damnable business of Tilbury’s 
which has deranged my judgment. 1 should have foreseen so com- 
monplace a maneuve” as this. Ha, Master Barton! so the price 1 
am to pay for keeping your mouth shut is — the hand of an earl’s 
daughter — the best match in England — to keep a student’s tongue 
from wagging! That is your bargain, is it?” 

” It is false, my lord! you know it is false!” 

With a cry that rung through the room. Lady Blanche suddenly 
straightened herself up and faced the earl, still on her knees, furi- 
ous as Alecto, inspired like a Pythoness, stretching her hand out, as 
it at once accusing him and appealing to Heaven against him. Her 
voice, usually a sweet, silvery treble, changed in the intensity of 
her emotion to a deep contralto, and he could see her eyes glowing 
with vivid light. 

” Ah!” she almost shrieked; ” 1 see it all now! There is some 
shameful secret connected with Tilbury’s accounts— which was 
known to Mr. Barton— which is known to his son— which you, the 
Earl of Selby, are trying to hush up! Is it for this, my lord, that 
you allowed an infamous accusation to be made against an honor- 
able man — that you have inflicted an irreparable injury on a noble 
woman — that you have been trying to get ‘ the whelp,’ as you call 
him, to be silent, and forego the infliction of justice cn his father’s 
murderers? You — father!— you would condescend to accept such a 
sacriflce! Why. you said it, my lord, you said it!” she cried, ex- 
citedly, seeing that the earl made a gesture of impatient denial. 
” Poor George Barton! No wonder he has nearly lost his reason! 
But 1 never would have believed that you— my father — would have 
condescended to such a bargain- no, not even if all your fortune de- 
pended on it!” 

The earl stood paralyzed and speechless. The overwhelming 
physical and moral fury of the attack— and coming from his daugh- 
ter —was like a bolt out of a clear sky. 

She seemed to have risen up out of the ground like an accusing 
spirit, beautiful, superb, implacable. There was just enough color 
of truth in the accusations her excited fancy had conjured up to 
strike what 1 may call the superstitious sense of a guilty man, even 
though he were as strong and skeptical as the Earl of yelbv. Her 
appearance, too, in her white dress, wini her head thrown back, her 
fine nostrils quivering, her eyes aflame, her lips curling with scorn, 
her exquisite young figure undulating with the movements of pas- 
sion, the cross — his wife’s cross — shining on her heaving throat — 
formed altogether a superb, awful, complex statue of passion. It 


A WEEK OF PASSIOIT. 


223 

was Greek in its marvelous beauty and heathen implacability, 
Dantesque in its deep volcanic enera:y, Romanic in its chivalrous 
audacity— and, with that cross of Christian hope on its breast, seemed 
to draw its moral indignation from the severe sources of Christian 
enthusiasm. The quick observer, to whom JEschylus and ^ Dante 
and Shakespeare and Goethe were familiar spirits, was struck by it, 
as an embodiment of the finest passion of all the grand ages. And 
then he could almost have imagined that his wife had risen from her 
grave to denounce him! 

Trembling, he ran forward and seized her hand, while his face, 
covered with a sweat of agony, bent over her. 

“ Blanche, Blanche! for God’s sake don’t look 8t me like that! 1 
have done wrong — 1 have done wrong — but nothing so base as you 
imagine. Blanche, you shall know all; I do not deserve this dread- 
ful denunciation. Oh, Blanche, Blanche, take back those words if 
you would not break your father’s heart !” 

His movement broke the spell of her passion, and undef the 
reaction she sunk back a little, with one hand on her heart. She 
looked up at him, regret ul, appealing. 

“Forgive me, father!’’ she murmured, in low, broken tones— 
“ forgive me! 1 see in j^our face that 1 have w’ronged you: but oh, 
father, father, fou see how 1 love him! And you wronged him sot 
You charged him, wRom 1 knew to be inn ocerit— whom 1 knew to 
be sacrificing himself for you — and me— you charged him with base- 
ness and deceit — and that— in o^der to win me! And I had just told 
you that 1 loved him, and 1 knew it to be false. It cut me to the 
heart— and— and I don’t know^ but it seemed suddenly as if my soul 
took fire and 1 must speak But you wdll forgive me?’’ 

She felt his hand trembling in hers, while his face looked grave, 
troubled, irresolute. The impulse that had led him to her side, and 
to the emotional weakness of his surrender and appeal had been a 
very complex one, defying analysis; for some of the causes were 
moral, some aesthetic— the classic grandeur of her passion, for in- 
stance — some physical, some spiritual — such as the superstitious in- 
fluence of the cross — and some resulted from a rapid action of his 
mind and judgment but one thing that had not animated him. was 
any alteration of his feelings in regard to George Barton. And here, 
with that stran.ge> one-ideaed pertinacity of w^oman, after terrifying 
him into a confession — an incredible performance— and in the very 
act of imploring his forgiveness, she vindicated and atlirined her 
love. 

Yet he was conscious that, although she was on her knees at his 
feet, in the attitude of humility, the moral victory was hers. Any 
man against whom a moral accusation is leveled by one whose own 
moral position is unassailable must be a poor creature if he can 
fancy that that which is true in it does not attaint him because it is 
mixed with false, or is not formulated with legal precision. If Lady 
Blanche had not caught the exact truth, the purity and generosity 
of her motives, the undercurrent of justice in her denunciation, had 
struck vitally home; and we have seen by his wmrds that, wdiile he 
flinched fro?n the exaggerations, he was too noble to deny his guilt. 
And nowq when she avouched young Barton’s integrity and candor 
of action, he felt that she must have had good grounds for doing it. 


224 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


The natural justness, the chivalry of his nature, told the earl that 
he had been ungenerous, that disappointment and anger li ad warped 
his judgment, that Barton could not have acted with him and to- 
ward him as he had done yesterday and to-day, while nursing such 
Mephistophelian projects as had been imputed to him. Still, tne 
earl was puzzled. There was the fact that Barton loved Lady 
Blanche, that she loved Barton, and that the secret had been kept 
from him. 

But one of the first things that comes back to the practiced man 
of the world in any of those rare crises which incontinently disturb 
his equilibrium is his dignity, the conservation of which has become 
an instinct. And in this supreme moment the earl’s sense of dignity 
revived, along with the rush of affection for his daughter. In the 
most graceful manner in the world he bent down and impressed a 
kiss upon her forehead, and in calm, gentle, grave tones answered 
her appeal : 

“ '\\Tiatever needs forgiveness, my dear daughter, 1 forgive — with 
all my heart. There has been a regrettable misunderstanding.” (It 
is thus that a man of tact wraps up in hoiibon paper all the painful 
memories of a disagreeable incident, and almost deludes himself 
and others into believing that what has happened was, after all, 
less serious than it seemed!) ‘‘ We have been skirmishing in the 
dark. It is evident that we are both misinformed— both mistaken 
as to the facts on either side. But, Blanche, believe me, my dear 
girl, if 1 have been silent about the grave matters which have been 
troubling me, it was for your g(»od, your happiness and peace of 
mind. On the other hand, Blanche," do you think you have been 
quite so candid with me as our relations — as my affection for you— 
justified me in expecting? In the middle of infinite anxieties of 
mind and heart, you have suddenly sprung a surprise upon me the 
gravity of which you can not be sensible of. You can liardly 
w^onder that, for the moment, it unnerved me, 1 am so surprised 
that 1 am unable to judge of it with the calmness and conside»alion 
which a subject ofsuch vital in.portanco demands. This,” he said, 
touching the cross on her bosom, “ reminds me how irreparable a 
loss we have both sustained, the sharpness of which comes home to 
us when we have to face such questions as these. And it reminds 
^me, too, how great and delicate is that responsibility which 1 now 
have to cany alone.” His voice trembled, Sh-e threw her arm 
round him, and rested her head against his side. “ But, dearest 
Blanche, this token will suggest to you how much 1 have lost— how 
greatly 1 need the affection and solace wdiich you alone remain to 
supply. Indeed, we are necessary to each other; and novv that so 
tew years of life are left to me, the moments are too precious to he 
troubled by disagreements or darkened by misunderstandings. Y'ou 
have expanded suddenly into a woman of rare force of character— 
and, 1 tear, along with some of his better qualities, you have in- 
herited some of the graver faults of your father’s temperament. 
This should make us merciful to each other. Tiie pain we have 
both experienced to-night— sharp and deep as it was— will not 
have been without its benefit if it have taught us that, and if it 
leave us henceforth to the calm enjoyment ot mutual love and con- 
fidence.” 


A WEEK OF FASSIOK. 225 

The delicacy of this little argument, wilh its unaffected simplicity 
and candor, struck the fine chords of Jjfuly Jllanche’s nature with 
the sympatlietic touch of a master-hand. Tire nian who could speak 
thus had not only a finely- tempered nature— he had, somewhere, a 
true heart, if at times it refused to denote its presence in tlie rigid 
place to the most careful auscultation. There are hearts of this kind 
which seem to shift about in men’s systems as if they were foreign 
objects, and only now and then turn up in the center to resume their 
proper functions. 

“ And now,” he added, after a little pause, ” let me help you to 
your feet, for 1 should not like Colston to catch us in this melo- 
dramatic attitude.” 

“ Father,” slie said, taking both his hands and looking up into 
his eyes, ” 1 snail never call 3 'ou ‘ papa ’ again; before 1 get up, let 
me promise you here solemnl}'- on my knees that, however deeply 1 
may love— him — 1 will do nothing, 1 will not even see him without 
your consent. I must have the agreement of your judgment and 
3 'oui heart. And, father,” she added, with a gracetul gesture, a 
blush, a quiet, decided smile, ‘‘ it may be years in coming, but you 
will give it — I’m sure you will!” 

While he shook his head, gravely smiling, he raised her to her 
feet and put her arm in his. 

” Let us walk up and down the room a few minutes,” he said. 
” 1 will tell you, dear Blanche, what is the cause of all my troubles, 
and you shall tell me how all this has come about. It is understood 
— is it not? — that henceforth there are to be no secrets between us?” 

She pressed his hand to her side as the only answer, and the earl, 
now in full possession of himself, sketched out for her, rapidly and 
graphically, the outlines of the situation. He did not attempt to 
extenuate his error, any more than he had done to young Barton, 
who was, by a curious fatality, the onlj’’ other cenfidant of his secret. 

Lady Blanche was naturally pained and shocked at this revelation; 
for until to-night her eyes had discerned no spots on the bright disk 
of her father’s character, and her fine nature invincibly recoiled from 
any moral weakness. But his pain, the severity with which he 
judged his own conduct, his evident repentance and desire to repair 
his fault, as well as the assurance that it could be done completely 
by a limited sacrifice of his fortune, alleviated to some extent her 
grief at this discovery. One thing only could res».ore them both to 
happiness: the soiled escutcheon must be cleaned, and his reparation 
be complete. Above all, she sympathized witli his desire that this 
should be done wMthout exposing him to his sister, to the young 
Earl of Tilbury, or to the rest of the family. But still she felt that 
there was a duty to be performed of even greater importance than 
the satisfaction of his self-esteem. 

In the strength of her own moral position, she could not but 
gather greater freedom in making her own confession. Blushing, 
but frank, and eloquent with the “inspiration of love, she told him 
all. Lord Charles’s hair would have stood on end had he known 
how his father and sister were engaged at that moment. They had 
already reached a point which he could only see in faint perspective 
at the end of a troublous journey of years. 

When the truth was all before him, the earl had the candor to 

8 


226 


A WEEK OE PASSION’. 


admit that young Bnrton’s charactor vvas free from blame. fie 
llinclied at his daughter’s bold confession, while he marked the 
depth and intensity of her feeling; he saw himself reflected in her 
impulsiveness; he also noted the signs of that firm resolution which 
had distinguished her from childhood; but he was still very far 
from capitulation. The outworks of aristocratic pride often hold 
out longer than the citadel of morality. 

“ Now, Blanche,” he said, ” what is to be done? Of course you 
will give me time to think over so grave a matter as yours, and in 
doing so 1 shall be governed wholly by consideration of your future 
happiness. But, you see, this other business will not wait. It de- 
mands immediate action.” 

IShe stood opposite him with her hands thrown behind her bank, 
the fingers interlaced, an attitude which defined and emphasized 
the classic beauty of her figure, 

” Father,’' she said, ” there is only one thing to do. No matter 
what comes of it to you— to us — you must not let those villains es- 
cape. At any risk you must let the police know at once what the 
grounds of suspicion against them are.” 

” What! and expose all my business?” 

” If necessary, dear father, even that. But 1 don’t see that you 
need do that at present. You can rest the case against them, can’t 
you, entirely in their defalcations and the forgery discovered by 
poor Mr. Barton? But there are two pressing reasons for immedi- 
ate action.” 

” Expound them to me, most wise Minerva!” 

“ 1 see you are becoming yourself again — you are getting mali- 
cious; but they are both very serious. One concerns yon personally.” 

“Me?” 

‘‘ Yes, dear father. It flashed across my mina while you were 
explaining the matter to me. Did it not occur to you that you are 
so mixed up with these people that it you remained too silent too 
long and their guilt should be established, 5mu might be exposed to 
a very ugly suspicion?” . 

Dad it occurred to him? Had not young Barton broueht it home 
to him only too terribly but yesterday? But he had not told her 
anything about that. 

“ Well, and the second?” 

‘‘ Delates to— Mr.— Barton. Don’t you sec what is holding him 
hack? It is a delicacy about compromising you — ” 

” It appears to me,” said the earl, with a grim smile, ” that there ' 
is a stronger reason than that, which 1 had not suspected; it is the 
^/ulelicacy of his regard for some one else.” 

That may have something to do with it,” she said, blushing 
and smiling, ” but whatever the motive, you see he is in a painful 
dilemma, from which he can not extricate himself without doing 
violence to his feelings on one side or the other.” 

The earl started with surprise at the justness of this appreciation. 
The intuition of love had detected that which, up to this moment, 
had escaped his own quick apprehension. 

” Why, what made you think of thai?” he inquired. 

“ Something which fell from him inadvertently to day, for 1 


A WEEK OE PASSIOif. 227 

must tell you he kept your secret maufully against Charlie and 
me ’ 

“ Hum ! So it ssems. If is rather late in life to have learned such 
a lesson, but 1 make a vow that, it ever 1 have a secret again, I 
will never a:o within a hundred yards of a woman. Well, and you 
wish to have him relieved from this dilemma?” 

” We owe it to him— to his mother — not to allow him to remain 
in this paintul position one moment longer than we can help it. 
Father, 1 think you ought to tell the police of your suspicions im- 
mediately.” 

She glanced at the clock. He noticed the movement. 

‘‘ What! to-night?” lie cried, in a voice of dismay. ‘‘It is a 
quarter to ten!” 

‘‘Think, my dear father! 1 know you are weary, but a few 
hours may make a difference. It is the first act of reparation, and 
1 want above all to see you separated this hour, by a definite act, 
from the villains who sent that telegram We shall both of us sleep 
more happily when that is done. He must know nothing about it. 
Neither you nor 1 should see him to-night, i expect he and Char- 
lie are in the house now. Let me order a hansom, and drive with 
you to Scotland Yard. The night is fine, and 1 will wait for you to 
bring you home.” 

‘‘ Ybu are right, Blanche. Ah, what would 1 not give to have 
your youth, your eneriry, your ingenuous conridence and impetuous 
enthusiasm! Well,” he added, pulling the bell, '‘fiat voluntas tiia, 
(lea implacahilis ! The time may be precious, and many a weary 
night have 1 spent working for an ungrateful country at matters 
of far less practical importance. Colston, has anybody come ini” 

‘‘ Lord Charles is in the billiard-room, your lordship, and Mr. 
Barton is with Mrs. Barton.” 

‘‘ Without saying anything to them, send for a handsom. 1 shall 
drive as far as the House of Commons. When Mr. Barton comes 
down-stairs give him my compliments and say that, to my great re- 
gret, 1 am obliged to go out on important business, and beg him to 
excuse me. Say that I shall have the pleasure of calling upon him 
to-morrow.” 

Lady Blanche had already disappeared. In less than three min- 
utes she returned, enveloped in a long, dark mantle, and wearing a 
toque and veil. When a woman chooses, she can perform a toilet 
with the rapidity of a Patagonian, but then she chooses only about 
twice in a lifetime. 

****** 

Deep was the disappointment of George iiarton when, on rejoin- 
ing Lord Charles, he received the earl’s message, and learned that 
Lady Blanche had gone out. He had counted at least on seeing her 
and pressing her hand, and she had vanished without even leaving 
nim a word. He looked blankly at Lord Charles, who looked quite 
as b'ankly at him. 

‘‘ Here’s a pretty go!” remarked the young lord. ‘‘ The peer and 
peii gone off together on a nocturnal expedition— in a hansom— my 
dear fellow, in a hansoni. The peer has given the address as the 
House of Commons; but do you know what I suspect? She has 
confessed, and he has taken, her off to Bethlehem Hospital. I have 


2:28 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


had the cuiiosity to cross-examiue Colston as to how she was dressed 
—a dark waterproof and cap and veil. And do you know the earl 
had the cunning to giv3 directions that we were not to be told of it 
till they had gone? What do you think of tliat? Call you that 
proper treatment of a lover?” 

‘‘Do be serious, Charles,” said Barton, peevishly, for he was 
profoundly perplexed by this mysterious maneuver. ” What does 
it really mean?” 

‘‘My dear fellow, 1 don’t know any more tlian you do. 1 have 
told you the strict truth. The fugitives appear to have been closeted 
together in the library since dinner-time; the peer rings for a han- 
som, the peri dons a c’oak, and tliey vanish. Bui it you want my 
serious opinion, 1 should say, knowing the young lady, there is 
something up. As for the earl, 1 have long since given; up guess- 
ing at his motives for any particular line of action as a ridiculous 
waste of time— nearly as unsatisfactory and exasperating as trying 
to fish the skin of the milk out of a bowl of French colTee. Did you 
ever try it? But there, you see, if all eggs were transparent there 
would be no addled ones sold, and trade would sutter; and if all 
men could be seen through, the carl’s occiijration would be gone, 
for diplomacy would be an impossibility. But Blanche is different 
— clear as a glass of water. And after what took place to-day, she 
would never have gone out and left us in the lurch in this way un- 
less something very serious were in the wind, that’s my solemn con- 
viction.” 

‘‘ Which does not bring us one whit nearer a solution.” 

‘‘ True— exactly like ‘ Paley’s Evidences.' ” 

Profound inquietude and discontent settled down on Barton’s 
mind w^hen, after spending a long hour in vain conjecture, he had 
taken leave of Lord Charles toward midnight; and started to walk 
to the Temple. Who that has experienced the weakness of love 
does not know how small a coRtretenvps will suddenly chill the fever 
of the spirit and wrap the heart in gloom? His mother’s subdued 
joy, and its animating effects upon her feelings and condition, had 
ch(!ered his heart. He felt so grateful to tire noble girl tor tlrus 
(piickeiiing his mother’s energies by her ingenuous avowal, and his 
happiness would have been complete could lie only have whispered 
or looked his feelings into her ear or eye. Now there was not 
merely disappointment, but anxiety. What could this strange 
movement mean? Had they gone to T,ady Tilbury? or was it not 
that Blanche had told the earl of her love, and that he had invented 
a pretext to prevent their meeting? This, being the most painful 
supposition, was naturally the one which his mind nursed as the 
most probable, and it filled him with presentiments of trouble and 
sorrow. No need to describe how thought chased thought, and one 
gloomy fancy followed on another, as hurrying clouds in a Septem- 
ber sk5^ Occupied with his reflections, he had mechanically taken 
the route along Wigmore Street to Cavendish Square, and thence 
down Prince’s Street, when, turning into Oxford Street, he became 
conscious with a shudder that he was at Regent Circus— on the 
scene of his father’s murder. 

Oh, he had been there since then! He had seen it by day and by 
night. Every feature of it was photographed in deep Xiembrandt 


A WEEK OF I'ASSIOFT. 


229 

shallows on bis heart. And just now, when that little check had 
rolled back upon themselves the gusliiu<i- fountains of his love aad 
created a little whirlpool in his soul, he found himself there, onob 
more in face ot his grief— and of his vengeance. At that hour of 
the night the turbulent movement of the Circus traffic has died 
down. The pavements are no longer filled with an eddying crowd. 
The omnibuses come up tew and crawling. The lighter traffic of 
carriages and cabs has dwindled down to mere units swiftly coming 
and departing. At the corners gather a few scores of home-going 
persons waiting to take their places in the omnibuses; gay and yet 
sad night-birds of both sexes flit here and there; two or three police- 
men gossip under the lamps with each other, or with those passing 
scores of chance acquaintances which every one who has any sta- 
tionary duty in a great city is sure to make with the frequenters of 
the streets. I'he loud roar of the human waves has ceased, and the 
tide is ebbing, growing gentler, as it recedes, until at length it set- 
tles down, far in the night, into almost perfect calm and silence. 

lie paused for a moment, and then imposing a firm control upon 
his feelings, he went and stood there upon the spot where, still 
vigorous in life, active in intelligence, anxious, but brave, busy 
with the interests of time, duty, affection, and all unconscious of 
the dark- winged messenger which was hovering above the crowd 
and had fixed its fatal eye on him, his father had changed, in the 
twinkling of an eye, from body to atoms, from soul to spirit. 

There was nothing to mark the spot. The roadway had been 
mended. Thousands of feet now trod it daily with indifferent steps 
— the ground where a brother man had been foully slain. Only last 
week— but the tale had already begun to drift into legend. One of 
four millions! What is that? Who can stay to count the leaves of 
a forest as they fall? 

George Barton stood there musing. 

He did not see or hear a policeman pointing at him, and saying 
to a curious American from the Langham Hotel, 

“ Why, right there, sir, where you see that gen’leman a-standin’; 
that’s the very spotl’V 

11 ad he heard that, he must have turned and fled; but fate had 
willed it otherwise. 

He was lost in thought. His father’s figure seemed to come up 
before him just as he was in life, gentle, genial, firm, with the dig- 
nity of virtue, and the frank, clear eyes of a perfect integrity. 

He could almost fancy that the figure looked at him earnestly, as 
if searching into his inmost soul, and asking, 

“Is thy heart true? Dost thou shrink from ihy duty? Doth 
aught stand between thee and thy love and loyalty to me? Wilt 
thou see that my honor is vindicated— that the good name 1 treas- 
ured 80 highly is not trampled in the dust by feet so foul as those 
of my murderers? Are they to go unpunished? Remember, son, 
that life or love or fortune is none ot them so precious to thee as 
ihy father’s honor, tor, if thou be worthy ot it, it is thine own; it 
thou permit a spot to rest upon it, it is to thy eternal shame!” 

Thus did the shade which his vivid but gloomy imagination had 
conjured up appear to speak to him as he stood on the last ground 
its living feet had trod. 


230 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


“ Father,” he murmured, ” if jmu can see into my heart, 3 'ou 
know that it is, and will be, faithful to you and duty. As 1 live, 
your memory shall be made as stainless as your life, your murderers 
shall meet with justice, if to secure this 1 have to tear out of my 
heart a precious love, and fore<ro all my hopes and ambitions. 
Father, here, where you perished, 1 consecrate all to the vindication 
of your honor and your life.” 

Even as he spoke, and laid, as it were, the sacrifice on the altar; 
even as the struggle between duty and desire had thus ended with 
the vicrory of duty, an answering message of hope and appiobation 
seemed to have been sent to him — almost as though it had dropped 
from the clouds. There was a sharp cry. He started and jumped 
back, just in time to escape from being crushed by a hansom, 
wiiicli had come swiftly up Regent Street, and was close upon 
him before he was aware. Happily, he was facing it, and a slight 
movement enabled him to*avoid it. His eye fell upon the occu- 
pants. A veil was quickly drawn aside, a w*hite handkerchief flut- 
tered, flew out and fell at his feet. Lady Blanche!. The earl 
leaned forward, waved his hand, and cried out in a voice bright, 
strong, cheering, “ To-morrow, Barton!” and they were gone. 

lie picked up the tiny, lace-edged web of cambric and thrust it 
into his bosom, and his heart told him at that moment that a way 
would be found of reconciling love and duty. 


CHAPTER XiX. 

THE LAST DREGS OP THE CUP OP HUMILIATION. 

Late in the evening of the same eventful Tuesday the Chief 
Commissioner of Police and Mr. 8 ontag were closeted together in 
the latter’s room. The chief commissioner had come in from a 
conference he had been having witti the Home Secretary in his 
private room at the House of Commons; for, during the session, in 
those dingy little holes which are assigned to the use of ministers in 
that mean but pretentious building many an important act of State 
is decided, and not a little public business is done. The Invincibles 
were seeking to take advantage of the excitement produced bj’^ the 
Regent Circus mystery, to alarm the authorities with threats of new 
outrages, and all tire public buildings were being watched to prevent 
surprise. Meantime it had become very important to the Secretary 
of State to disprove as promptly as possible the general notion that 
the Fenians had been at the bottom of that startling crime, and the 
commissioner was anxious to know what progress had been made 
during the day in the investigation of the circumstances. 

McLaren’s disappearance had excited profound disquiet in the 
minds of all the officials. It indicated that the organization they 
were endeavoring to unmask and outwit was one of extraordinary 
daring, cleverness, and resource. In one particular, the Homo 
Secretary and chief commissioner both admitted, Mr. Sontag's pre- 
sumptions had turned out to be coriect. There was no doubt that 
the agent of the Earl of Selby, George Barton the elder, was the per- 
son who had been the victim of the crime. Such being the victim, 
and such the characer of his enemies, who could those" enemies be? 


A WEEK OP PASSTOK. 


231 

There was the ruh! So far as the knowledge of the police ex- 
tended up to the present moment, Air, Barton liad no enemies. On 
the contrary, all the information they could gather went to prove 
the quiet, auricable character ot all his relations. Even the Earl of 
S(dl)y, when he had accused him, through his solicitors, of running 
away with liis property had seemed wounded and astonished, and 
spoke ot the long friendship that had existed between them as an 
aggravation of the supposed ollense. One exception only to this 
general testimony had not escaped the chief detective’s observation. 
Air. Sontag, Garbett, every one who had come in contact with Pol- 
lard & Pollard, noticed that there was an underground of animosity 
in their feelings against the agent. These were the last persons 
with wliom he had been engaged in serious business, Sontag, re- 
viewing the case, pointed this out to his chief, and owned that after 
the earl’s conduct in tlie morning they could not entertain any 
doubts of his sincerity and innocence. 

“ Indeed,” said Sontag, “ the state of affairs disclosed to-day is 
very curious and mysterious. You will follow me, sir, point by 
poi n t V ” 

Sir Henry nodded. 

” The day that Air, Barton disappeared young Air. Barton applied 
to the police to help him to find out what had become of his father, 
and liis manner, his anxiety, and grief satisfied us that he, at all 
events, was not acting in collusion with the old gentleman. Next 
(lay, Friday, information is lodged here by Pollard & Pollard, as- 
suming to act as solicitors for the Earl of Selby.” 

” Why do you say assuming?” 

‘‘ Because from what has happened since 1 guess that the earl 
rather permitted than directed them to act as they did, and since 
then he has practically thrown them over.” 

‘‘ That is a very strange state ot things,” said the commissioner. 

” It is, sir, and grows stranger the more one examines it. You 
see. Air. Barton w^as Lord Selby’s agent and solicitor. Why, then, 
should lie have employed Pollard tte Pollard as well?” 

The chief d(3tective stuck his head lorward, and peered at the 
commissioner in that provoking way which was habitual to him 
when about to put the astuteness of any one with whom he was 
conversing to the test. 

” 1 don’t see why not, though 1 suppose you do. Confound yonr 
conundrums, Sontag— let us get on!” 

” 1 beg pardon, Sir Henry. The same firm were solicitors fo the 
estate of the Earl of Tilbury, of wdiicli Lord Selby was the surviving 
executor, and also to the countess, his sister. Do you not think it 
rather odd, if not irregular, that the same lawyers should be acting 
personally for the earl, as well as on account of the estate of his 
ward?” 

” 1 don’t know enough about such things to pass an opinion; but 
no one would think of criticising such an arrangement in the case 
ot the Earl ot Selby, a man ot unblemished honor, and, 1 should 
ihitilr, quite as rich as younff Tilbury.” 

” 1 am not so sure about that, sir. 1 believe not. At all events 
lih estates are not so productive as Lord Tilbury’s, and there is this 


232 


A WEEK OF FASSIOK', 


dillerence — Lord Tilbury’s estates are free from incumbrances, 
while I have ascertained that the Earl of Selby has recently been 
raisino; large sums of money through these very solicitors.” 

“ How do you know that?” inquired the commissioner. 

”1 have Garbett at work in the Pollards’ office. One of their 
clerks has given him some general information, thoug:h he is un- 
willing to supply particulars, or, more probably has no knowledge 
of them. The proceedings appear to be highly mysterious. How, 
Sir Henry, you follow me? The Earl of Selby has an agent, a 
solicitor, and a very able man, Mr. Barton, who does everything; 
nevertheless the earl employs Pollard & Pollard, solicitors to his 
ward and to his sister, to raise large sums of money for him for un- 
known purposes; and although the business has been in hand for 
some time, Mr. Barton has never turned up in it until about ten 
days before his disappearance. He transacts the business, or re- 
views it, with Pollard & Pollard, the earl, by the way, being mean- 
while out of town. Then, sir, he is murdered.” 

“ Curious, certainly, but still all quite capable of explanation,” 
said the chief commissioner. 

” But, sir, the peculiarity of the situation is this, following on 
what 1 have described. The Earl of Selby has shown no great 
animvs against Barton; the Pollards have. To-day he is taking 
active steps to discover the perpetrator ol the crime; to-day the 
Pollards have withdrawn from any further pursuit of inquiries as 
to Barton’s fate. And regarding that, something very significant 
has happened this afternoon.” 

“Eh! something new!” cried the commissioner. 

“ Yes, sir; but with your permission 1 will take things in order,” 
continued Mr. Sontag, shuffling some papers which were docketed 
and lay on the table at his hand. “Well, sir, Mr. Barton, coming 
up to London on this business, holds long conferences with Pollard 
<fc Pollard, the latest on Wednesday afternoon last, which was of so 
stormy a character as to excite the curiosity of the clerks in Pol- 
lards’ office. That was his last appearance in that office. Second 
notable fact. The third arises out of the advertisement which those 
gentlemen inserted in yesterday’s and to day’s papers. 1 refer to 
the fact, stated therein, that a number of valuable documents and 
bonds had disappeared with Barton.” 

“ Did they consult you about that advertisement?” 

“ No, though they saw me on Saturday, when, of course they 
must have sent it to the papers for insertion on Monday.” 

“ Well, Mr. Sontag?” 

“ I have noted down the information 1 have collected about those 
papers in the order ot time of the happening of the facts; it is more 
than curious. 1 will read my memorandum ; you can rely on the 
accuracy of each fact ; 

“ ‘ Monday, June 23rf.— -Mr. Barton entered Pollards’ with a large 
bag — full of papers brought in a hansom. When he went away the 
bag was empty. It was of limp leather, and when empty could be 
doubled up under the arm. 

Wc’dnesday, 25f7t. —Visit of Mr. Barton to Pollard & Pollard, 


A WEEK OF PASSTOK. 


333 


Stormy interview. Mr, II “very much excited and trembling 
wlien he went ^lwa3^” 

Thursddy, 26//i. — Death of Mr. Barton in Regent Circus, on 
his way to an appointment with the Earl of Selby. 

B\iday, 27A.— Pollard & Pollard informed the police of the 
flight of Mr. Barton with a lot of papers, etc., of great value. 

Saturday, 28^/i. — Mr. Charles Pollard went down by midday 
train to his country seat in Rent, reluming same evening. Took 
with him a heavy bag, seeming to contain law-papers. The porter 
noticed this, as he had the bag in his hand and put it into the cab. 

“ ‘ Monday, 30i;/i. — Advertisement appears in London journals, 
odering reward for recovery of George Barton with deeds of title, 
bonds, etc,, signed “ Pollard & Pollard, solicitors to the Rt. lion, 
the Earl of Selby, K. G.“ 

“ ‘ 12.15. — Visit of the Earl of Selby to Pollard & Pollard, and 
subsequently to Mr. George Barton, jim., in the Temple. 

“ ‘ 9 p.M. — Mr. George Barton, juu., visited the earl at his house 
in Portinan Square, and remained till 12.40 a.m. this morning,’ 

“ Kow, Sir Henry, we come — please note what 1 am going to 
road— to to-da)’’; 

“ ‘ Tuesday, July \st, 11.35 a.m.— Letter received at Scotland 
Yard from Pollard & Pollard, stating that the missing papers had 
been found mislaid in their office, withdrawing the advertisement, 
and all pursuit after Mr. Barton, senior, professedly acting for their 
client. 

“ ‘ 11.45.— The Earl of Selby calls in Scotland Yard, states that 
the Earl of Tilbury, having come to himself, had identified the 
victim in Regent Circus as Mr. Barton, repudiates the advertise- 
ment of Pollard & Pollard, and directs a reward of £2000 to be 
olferecl for the recovery of Mr. Barton’s murderers. 

“ ‘ 2 p.M. — Mr. Charles Pollard, returning from his place in the 
country, where he had gone at about 10.15 a.m., brings back to 
his office a bag— the same taken dovvn on Saturday, and apparently 
containing the same contents it did then. 

“ 2.10 p.M. — Pollard & Pollard refuse to give the police a list of 
the documents alleged to haVe been lost. 

“ ‘ 5 p.M. —The said list is received at Scotland Yard.’ 

“ I ought to mention. Sir Henry, that no communication had 
taken place this morning between the earl and Pollard & Pollard 
previous to their letter. 1 have good reason to believe that they did 
not know of liis intention to offer that reward, and, on the other 
hand, he did not know the bonds and other papers had teen found. 
Indeed, the earl did not see Pollard until nearly four o’clock in the 
afternoon, after paying a visit at Lord Tilbury’s and to the City. 
Now, sir, I sent on Mr. Garbett for a list of those documents which 
the two Pollards at first peremptorily refused, and were rather 
rough on Garbett; but they sent it to me later in the day, and 1 have 
it here.” 

“ When you talk of a bagful of docun^ents,” inquired the chief 
commissioner, do you refer to any considerable bulk?’’ 

“ 1 refer to such a bulk> Bir fienry, as it was utterly impossihlo 


A WEEK OE PASSION. 


^34 

to mislay. That is Garbctt’s opinion, who saw the oag Mr. Charles 
Pollard carried, and the room in which it was alleged the papers 
had been overlooked. Moreover, Pollards’ own clerk, whose duty 
it was to arrange the papers in that room every night and morning, 
avers that they could not possibly have been overlooked there. 
Why, sir, there was £55,000 in United {States bonds, which would 
make a big parcel in itseU.” 

“ Why, Mr. Sontag, ” said the chief commissioner, gravely, “ this 
in itself is very suspicious. A deliberate attempt to fasten on an 
innocent mao a charge of theft of property which was all the time 
in their own posseession! What on earth can it mean? The Pol- 
lards are regarded as immaculate.” 

” So was Satan once, sir, according to Mr. John Milton,” replied 
Mr. Sontag. ” Now, when you add to this little shuflle the circum- 
stance that, in following up Mr. Charles Pollard into such a neigh- 
borhood as that of W'apping at a late hour of night (when and where 
he could not possibly have had any legitimate business, especially 
as he went disguised), our man, McLaren, has come to grief — mur- 
dered beyond any viuestion— -are we not justified in fixing very 
strong suspicions on these immaculate gentlemen?” 

“ Not only that, but in taking some action immediately,” cried Sir 
Henry. 

“ They are under strict surveillance already. If they try to run 
away they will be stopped. But you see, sir, we have three weak 
spots in our case, and we dare not move against such people as they 
are on mere suspicion. They are not poor devils who have no 
money or character. A mistake would ruin us. First, you ob- 
serve, we have no actual proof that Barton was murdered; second, 
we have no proof that the papers taken to Kent on Saturday were 
the papers alleged to have been stolen; third, we have no proof that 
the papers brought from Kent w^ere the papers taken there on Sat- 
urday. And yet 1 don’t suppose you have a shadow of doubt what 
the faces are?” 

“ Not the least. But what conceivable motive was there for all 
this shufliing?” 

” I have racked my brains till they ached to wmrk out a hypothe- 
sis. You see, sir, it does not necessarily point to any complicity 
with the murder,” said Mr. Sontag. 

” Why not?” asked the commissioner. 

” They removed the papers the second day after the murder. 
Had they donq so tiie day it occurred, the suspicion would have been 
overwhelming. But they may simply be dishonest, and, learning 
that the only man who had any knowledge of the bonds being in their 
possession was dead, they might have thought of impounding them; 
then, on reflection, seeing the ditficulty of doing anything with 
them, they may have reproduced them.” 

‘‘No, Sontag, that won’t do. I’ve been thinking while you 
spoke. What do you think of this? They trump up a charge 
against the dead man in order to throw us off the scent.” 

Sontag started. It was the flash of light he wanted. He thouglit 
a minute, and then said doubtfully, for he never liked to be out- 
done in sharpness even by his chief, 

“ Y— e— esj but why, then, do they reproduce them?” 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. S35 

Because, I expect the}^ liave heard that the Circus mystification 
has so far failed that it is known that Barton was the victim, and 
of course the question would then arise, where are the bonds? But 
whose property w^ere they?” 

“The list does not say,” replied Mr, Sontag, “The deeds ap- 
pear to be Lady Tilbury's, The bonds would be to bearer. It’s 
a curious mixture. 1 have never come across such a complicated 
case,” 

“ Well, the Earl of Selby could throw some light upon it,” said 
the commissioner; “ or perhaps the Countess of THbury or her son. ” 

“ But there, sir, is the difficulty; the earl will tell nothing; young 
Barton is as tight as a nut. He and the earl have become reconciled 
since Lord Tilbury set all doubts at rest by his declaration.” 

“ Is the earl sincere?” 

“ I think so: and more than that, he and young Barton to-day 
both hinted that they suspected somebody. But they don’t seem 
inclined to trust us with their suspicions, and, you may depend 
upon it, there is one of those family secrets involved in this busi- 
ness wLich mystifies the wdiole matter, and which, unless we look 
out very sharply, will lead to a failure of justice. The earl may be 
traying to buy over young Barton to keep the secret.” 

At this moment a smart policeman entered the cabinet with a 
card. The commissioner glanced at it in surprise, and handed it to 
his subordinate, who elevated his eyebrows. 

“Say nothing,” said the commissioner to the other in German ; 
“ let him do all the talking.” Then, turning to the man, he said in 
English, “ Ask the earl to come in.” 

The peer entered with his habitual easy, dignified manner, but the 
two great policemen, who instinctively looked up to read his face, 
saw that he had some grave intelligence to communicate. 

“ 1 must apologize. Sir Henry,” he said, “ for troubling you at 
so late an hour; indeed, 1 hardly expected 1 should be so fortunate 
as to see you.” 

“ We have no night or day in this office,” said the commissioner, 
smiling, “ and we were just engaged in discussing the question of 
your agent’s murder as you came in. 1 wish, earl, you could throw 
some further light on the case, for it is very obscure.” 

“ My object in seeking you at such an unseasonable hour,” said 
the peer, “ is to make a clean breast of all I know, lest, through my 
silence, there should be a failure of justice. 1 must tell you frankly 
1 am placed in a very delicate and even a very critical position by 
what 1 am about to tell you ; and it was not until late last night, or 
rather early this morning, that my suspicions were aroused and di- 
rected against the persons whom 1 am going to indicate to you.” 

“Indeed!” said the commissioner, with interest, while Mr. Son- 
tag peered at the earl with evident excitement. 

“ Tes,” continued the peer, and 1 am ashamed to say that my 
own relations wath the persons at whom our suspicious point are of 
a nature to compromise me seriously, not in regard to this, but to a 
previous matter, which 1 fear — and I grieve to say it— has led up 
to this horrible denouement.” 

The commissioner stared at the earl with surprise, and said, po- 
litely, 


236 


A WEEK OF rASSION". 


“ Earl, 1 need not caution so experienced a magistrate and states- 
man as you against making any disclosures calculated to compromise 
yourself.” » 

“it is not necessary, Sir Henry,” replied the earl, with a grim 
smile. ” The story which I am going to tell you is one which 1 
mny well shrinl^ from confiding to any human being, and still less 
to the ears of those who are engaged in the vindication of justice. 
It is a personal and family secret; it relates to a transaction, tor my 
Dart, of which 1 am profoundly and heartily ashamed. In telling 
It to you 1 place in your hands my reputation, my honor, and the 
peace of mind and happiness of many other persons; but in the in- 
terest of justice, at whatever cost to myself, 1 can no longer keep 
silence.” 

The carl leaned his head on his hand, and the two men could see 
that he was masteiing some powerful emotion. 

*‘My lord,” said the chief commissioner, “no one could judge 
more clearly tham yourself between the circumstances which would 
tend to connect you, however remotely, with acts of a criminal 
character and matters which have become mixed up with such acts, 
and which, though not of a criminal character, it is disagreeable or 
even compromising for you to disclose. In the former case we could 
not ask you to say anything; in the latter we can offer 3^ou the assur- 
ance that nothing you divulge shall ever pass these walls, or be used 
except in a manner to shield you from any unpleasantness.” 

” 1 expected nothing less of your discretion and good-feelinir. Sir 
Henry, and take it for granted that I may equally rely on that of Mr. 
Sontag ”- the latter bowed — ” but 1 assure you that when 1 came 
here 1 was prepared to do my duty and face the consequences with- 
out obtaining any such promise.” 

Once more the unhappy earl, drinking the cup of repentance to 
the last dregs, forced himself to tell the story of his errors and of 
that to which they had led, adding the circumstances which had 
come to his knowledge through George Barton’s son. The two 
men listened to this remarkable confession with rapt attention. 
While he spoke the drama gradually assumed form, color, pre- 
cision in Mr. Sontag’s brain, until, as the earl closed his recital, the 
great detective leaped to his feet and cried out, 

“We have them! We have them! It is as clear as noonday. 
We must have a warrant for their immediate arrest.” 

The detective was always in the ascendant with Mr, Sontag, who, 
if he were, as he had said once before, an artist, had no time to 
waste in sentiment, and in fact seldom wasted it either in that or in 
sympathy. He was too familiar with the worst weaknesses of 
humanity to have any high opinion of men, too concentrated on the 
business of detection and conviction to have much nicety in regard 
to the feelings of those who were the objects or the means of his 
skillful and ingenious strategy. His mind, therefore, while the peer 
was speaking, had been fixed on the aim which he, as Chief of the 
Detective Department of Police, had in view— the solution of the 
Regent Circus mystery. The commissioner, on the contrary, who 
was by nature, of a less philosophic and more chivalrous nature, 
while he had not lost a word, and was fixing all the facts related by 
the earl in a singularly tenacious memory, could not help Jippreciut- 


A WEEK OE PASSrO:^. 2, St 

log and synipatliizing with the pain that such a declaration gave to 
hi« distinguished visitor. 

“ ytay, Sontag,” he said, speaking in a gentle tone, as he cast a 
deprecating glance at his subordinate, “ will you kindly sit down a 
moment, and let us ask his lordship, who has laid us under so deep 
an obligation by this revelation, whether there is any line of action 
he wishes to suggest — any which occurs to him as the best for in- 
suiing the punishment of the crime while avoiding the exposure 
which his own voluntary reparation has rendered unnecessary? Nay, 
my lord, forgive me, we owe you this at least for such help as this; 
for without it our conjectures would have been vain. Besides,” he 
addeil to Sontag, “ you surely have not overlooked the tact that 
even yet a link is missing? Neither of the Pollards, though they 
may be the principals in this infamous plot, was tbe individual who 
actually prepared the torpedo and placed it on Mr. Barton’s person. 
You have no clew whatever to the intermediate agent or agents of 
the murder.” 

“ 1 appreciate your good feeling, Sir Henry,” said the earl, ofler- 
iug his hand to the commissioner, ” and thank you.” 

“ Yes, but pardon me, my lord, and Mr. Commissioner,” said 
Sontag, with his eye still on the main purpose of his thoughts, 
“We can at once have them arrested on the charge of forgery, and 
that will assist us in getting the er idence v e require in the murder 
case.” 

“ No, Mr. Sontag,” said the earl. “ Forgive me; 1 can not agree 
to that. 1 well understand your anxiety to catch these men — it does 
you credit as an active and able officer — but you must see, after 
what I’ve just told you, that it does not lie with me to accuse or to 
punish them for their sins against me. The consequences of those 
personal wrongs 1 have determined to suffer, without taking any 
steps to avenge them, because in once allowing myself to take the 
benefit of the wrong-doing of these men 1 have inade it leu times my 
own. My object in coming here is not to obtain a personal repara- 
tion, it is to prevent two criminals escaping from the penalty due 
for a blacker and more hideous crime.” 

]\Ir. Sontag involuntarily gave a slight elevation of the shoulders 
which, under any other circumstances, would have cost him an 
angry look from the earl, who, however, was in no humor to resent 
any of those mortifications which were the natural and inevitable 
results of his position. He simply turned to the commissioner and 
added, 

“ But you need not let them escape. You must have them closel}^ 
watched until you can get the clew you want to establish their con- 
nection with the crime.” 

“ Oh, that is being done,” said the chief detective, dryly. “ They 
will not be allowed to quit the kingdom; but 1 should certainly pre- 
fer to have them between four stone walls, and 1 say nothing ought 
to be allowed to prevent us from securing them.” 

A quick anger shot into the peer’s eyes, but he instantly mas- 
tered it. 

“ Mr. Sontag,” he said, in a quiet, dignified tone, “ 1 do you the 
justice to believe that if you were in my position you would act 
precisely as I am doing. Command all my resources, my time, my 


A WEKlt OE EASSIOK'. 


938 

intellifijeiice such as it is — and in the last resort even my reputation 
— for the ends of justice— anythinsj except to pul me forward as 
seeking to punish the delinqutncies of the miserable men who have 
once been Die agents of my own wrongful acts. But, Sir Henry/’ 
he said, turning to the commissioner and giving him his hand, “ I 
must not keep you from the urgent business you have in hand, and 
my daughter is waiting below. Spare no expense. Telegraph (o all 
the ports to prevent any evasion; they will be as clever in their crim- 
inality as they have been in their business. Good-night.” 

He bowed with politeness, but dignity, to Mr Sontag. 

” My lord,” said the latter, taking a step forw'ard, as his clouded 
face assumed a brighter expression, touched and refined by some 
secret feeling, ” may I shake hands with you?” 

The earl gave his hand cordially but gravely, and accompanied by 
the commissioner left the room. When his chief returned, he looked 
at Mr. Sontag with a curious, inquiring glance. The detective ap- 
peared to be a little ashamed of his sudden betrayal of feeling. 

‘‘The earl,” he said, with a slight laugh, wdiich was evidently 
forced, ” is greater in the hour of his deej)est humiliation than any 
man 1 ever saw in the height of an untarnished integrity.” 

“You are a queer fellow, Sontag,” said the commissioner, smil- 
ing. ” 1 see that underneath your philosophic calm and stern official- 
ism you conceal some deep fountains of sentiment — very, very deep 
dowm, 1 fear; but in this case 1 sympathize with j^ou. It is not 
often that you and 1, with all our experience, get such an insight 
into such a character as that.” 

” And it is not often that a bad secret deserves to be so well 
kept,” replied Sontag. ‘‘But there is midnight striking, and no 
word from Garbett. That fellow has a nose like a blood-hound; 1 
believe he really does smell a criminal when he passes him. He 
saw some fellow to-day in Lincoln’s Inn Fields— a certain Captain 
Yales— gambler, turfman, blackleg, roue — everything a man can be 
that’s bad, and still swagger about as a ‘ gentleman,’ ay, and in 
gentlemen’s society, too — who is already in our black-books, and 
has been signalized to us from France and Belgium as having had 
some suspicious relations with criminals, though he has hitherto 
managed to keep on the right side of the hedge.” 

‘‘ What, Vates of the Colorado business?” inquired Sir Henry. 

“The very same,” replied Sontag. “Well, seeing him today 
in such close proximity to Pollards’ offices, an idea struck Garbett, 
and he asked me to let him go and make some inquiries about this 
gentleman. He started off at five o’clock, and I have not heard of 
him since. He must have got hold of something serious, for he 
never w^astes his time.” 

‘‘ 1 hope he will be more fortunate than poor McLaren.” 

‘‘ Ah! a good man, too, but inclined to be rash. Garbett, like a 
good general, never moves wdthout protecting his rear. He is well 
armed. 1 have no fear of him. But my curiosity will keep until 
to-morrow morning.” 

Though Mr. Sontag spoke so confidently, we shall see that, in 
fact, it did not keep so long even as that. 


A WEEK OE PASS102S:, 


239 


CHAPTER XX. 

TWO BITTBK UISAPrOINTMENTS. 

At about the same hour that the Earl of Selby was sitting in the 
cabinet which is the lively center of the discovery and prevention of 
crime among four millious of people, two men lauded in Gravesend 
from the steam ferry-boat, having crossed from Tilbury. The very 
name of that place must have awakened in their minds some bitter 
reflections. They had come down from Bow third-class by the rail- 
way. Their garb was that of mechanics returning late from work, 
which had left many a foul mark on their hands and faces. One, 
the younger and taller of the two, carried over his shoulder a plaited 
straw basket, from which protruded the handles of some well-used 
plumber’s tools. Over the right arm of the other \vas a coil of lead 
piping of small diameter, and he carried in his left hand a piece of 
iron gas-pipe about six feet long. Both these rneu wore old, greasy 
felt hats pulled well over their faces, and tne taller smoked a short 
clay pipe. The elder of the two had a grisly beard, which looked 
as if it had been both smoked and singed in the course of his labor. 
In a bright light it would have been difficult to distinguish their feat- 
ures; in the dinginess of Gravesend gas it was impossible to identify 
them, as they furtively turned down a street to the left running par- 
allel with the river-bank. Keeping close together, they conversed in 
low monosyllables or hasty whispers, although there appeared to be 
no danger of their being overheard by the two or three persons who 
could be discerned in the street. As the reader will have guessed, 
the firm of Pollard & Pollard, having decided on a “new depart- 
ure,” was hidden beneath this clever disguise. 

The manner in which they had evaded the detectives, who were 
spring every motion, was creditable to the genius of Mr. Charles 
Pollard. The two men, at about six o’clock, had driven in a hansom 
to ]Mr. Charles’s house in Queen’s Gate, as it to dine there — and 
there they dined. They were closely followed b}-^ the four detect- 
ives, who stationed themsblves in front of the house, and, fearing to 
betray their presence or excite suspicion by perambulating the long 
paved mews which ran behind the houses facing on Queen’s Gale, 
narrowly watched the only outlet at the end. Each house connected 
with its own stables, Charles Pollard directed that the brougham 
should be prepared at eight o’clock; and at the last moment, just 
before it was about to be pulled out of the coach-house, to be har- 
nessed to the horses, he entered it with his uncle, drew up the 
wooden blinds with which it was provided; and pulled down ‘he 
silken ones within, making it impossible for any eye to penetrate 
the interior. There was no warrant out against them; and even if 
they were being watched, the police \^ould hardly venture to exam- 
ine the carriage in leaving the mews, lie had taken his coachman 
aside, and to the surprise of the man slipped a five-pound note into 
his hand. 

“ Jeffrey,” he said, ‘‘ you know, of course, that we are trying to 


240 


A WEEK OE PASSION. 


find out what has become of that Mr. Barton, Lord Selby’s man of 
business, who ran away the other day?” 

Tlie man who had served the father ot his present master nodded, 
” Yes, sir.” 

” Well, we have had some important news about him to-day, and 
we are promised, it we go to a certain place to-night, that we shall 
find a man who knows where the money and papers are, but doesn’t 
want to be known; and we have to act very cautiously, you know, 
so that no one shall get wind of it.” 

The man entered into the spirit of the thing at once. 

” 1 see, sir,” he said. ” You want to see him, secret-like.” 

” Just so. But you know Barton ran off with a hundred thou- 
sand pounds?” 

” A hun-derd-thou-sand pounds, sir?” said Jeffreys, slowly, with 
eyes that showed how hard it was for his brain to realize the im- 
mensity of such a sura. ” D’ye sa}'^ so, sir?” 

‘‘ Yes; and very clever and cunning folks he had to help him. and 
it takes all my wit to circumvent them. But we’ll do it, Jeffrey, 
we’ll do it yet!” 

‘‘ Oh, there ain’t no doubt about you, sir,’' said Jeffrey, glancing 
at his master with some pride. ” If any one can do it you will.” 

Well, Jeffrey, this man we’re going to see to-night, you know, 
tells us these fellows may suspect we have some news, and it is very 
likely they’re watching us now. Have you seen any suspicious- 
looking men about?” 

” Why, sir,” cried Jeffrey, his face clearing with a sudden idea, 
“ Lord James Millville’s coachman were only just a-saying to me, 
when you called me up, that two fellows looking like bailiffs had 
been a-loping about the end of the mews for the last hour and a 
half, and he asked me if 1 knew of any one in trouble along our row, 
sir. Mebbe they’re the very chaps you mean?” 

Charles Pollard’s eyelids trembled a moment, but he answered 
calmly, 

“ 1 shouldn’t %vondcr. Anyhow, we must act as if they were. 
Have the horses harnessed all ready. My uncle and 1 will get into 
the brougham in the stable, and pull up the Venetians; then no one 
can see inside. Then you draw out the carriage into the mews, put 
in the horses as quick as you can, and get on the seat by yourself. 
Send Ti.m oft somewhere on a message. If those men should ask 
you any question about, where you’re going, just say you are taking 
the brougham for Mrs. Pollard to Victoria Station, then drive like 
the deuce. Cut across Westminster Bridge, and get down that side 
of the river to Tocley Street, where you will drop us— w'e have to 
meet the man in that neighborhood — and then 3 mu come straight 
home. Now, Jeffrey, this is a very important matter for us; not a 
word to a soul, and have everything ready in half an hour; and it 
we catch Barton, I’ll see you get part of the reward. D’^^e under- 
stand?” 

” Oh yes, sir, you’ll see. I’ll manage it,” cried Jeffrey; and the 
maneuver vras executed to the letter. 

As the carriage passed out of the y.ard two detectives peered at it 
sharply, hut it was quite impossible to penetrate its secret. They 
had watched from the end of the mews the operation of putting in 


A WEEK OE PASSIOK. 


241 


the horses; they had seen the brougham pulled out of the coach- 
liouse, and were certain no one had entered it while it stood in the 
yard. However, as it passed them rapidly, one of them threw up 
his finger to the coachman and called out, 

“ Are you Lord Millville's coachman?” 

“No,” shouted Jeffrey, shortly, ” I’m Mrs. Pollard’s. What the 
devil is that to you?” And giving his horses the whip, he was 
round the corner in a moment. 

The men looked after the carriage with suspicious glances, and 
that feeling of doubt which is intuitional in a detective. One ot 
them ran round to consult the two coadjutors who were walking on 
the opposite side of the street in front of Mr. Charles Pollard’s 
house. 

” Oh!” said the oldest of the party, “ they could hardly be in the 
carriage; they were out on that balcony smoking only ten minutes 
ago. Still, it’s not a bad idea to follow it uji. They may be send- 
ing :i message to some one, you know. ’Gad! he’s gone round the 
corner already. Run down and take that hansom that’s standing at 
Cromwell Road, and see where coachee goes to.” 

But from the upper end of Queen’s Gate to Cromwell Road is a 
good long step, and before our detective could reach a hansom the 
brougham was far down the road, and, turning down to Chelsea by 
the Metropolitan Station at South Kensington and Pelham Place, 
had rendered it impossible to the sharpest detective in the world to 
follow its course. 

From Tooley Street the two men had found their way to Mr. 
Charles Pollard’s useful retreat in the East-eml, where they assumed 
two workmen disguises which he had used before, and which were, 
indeed, almost impenetrable. The bag of tools was already there; 
but on their way down the Bow Road they had, at Charles’s sugges- 
tion, gone into a plumber’s shop and bought the piping. 

Thus they were on their way to join the yacht. When they had 
shaken themselves free ot the people who had crossed in the boat, 
and proceeded about two hundred yards or so, the younger swung 
round anil cast a shirrp glance up the street. 

“ Any one coming?” said the other, in a voice shaky with 
an.xiety. 

” No,” replied his companion. ” Quick.! Down to the left, and 
then to the right.” 

And away they went rapidly, the elder panting painfully for 
breath. 

, At length the taller one turned down to a row of two-story houses 
which faced the water, and in front of which a small wooden jetty 
extended into the river, with a few boats moored alongside it. 

” She should be lying out thereabouts,” said Charles Pollard, 
peering eagerly over the water. The night was clear, though there 
was no moon. 

A small vessel or two was moored out in the stream, but no 
steamer w'as to be seen, either up or dowm the river, excepting a 
largo vessel which was slowly steaming up against the tide, and 
whose huge bulk concealed a large stretch of the river. ” He must 
have moved her down,” ho muttered. ” D— p it, it is vexatioual 
However, let’s go iu and get his explanation.'’ 


242 


A WEEK OE PASSIOK. 


He turned to a small public-house which stood at the cornei of 
the row before-mentioned. Over the door swung a sign on which 
bf daylight could have been made out a rough and somewhat sim- 
ple caricature of three hogsheads lying on their sides, two below and 
the third resting on them, forming a p^Tamid. It was the “ Three 
Tuns,” of which a gentleman of the naval name or Rodney pro- 
fessed to be the proprietor. The house was not yet closed, and from 
within came to the ears of the two fugitives the sharp, exasperat- 
ing sounds of one of the most diabolical instruments ever invented 
next to the bagpipes, a concertina, and a hubbub of voices which, 
from their high pitch, seemed to be habituated to talking amid 
whistling winds and roaring waves. Avoiding the entrance to tire 
bar, Charles Pollard turned quickl}’’ down a small passage, about 
. three feet wide, which lay between the inn and the next house, and 
knocked at a side door. After a pause of a minute the door was 
half opened by a stout, red-faced man, with a not very frank or at- 
tractive aspect, who, thrustini: his large head through the aperture 
lie had made, keenly surveyed the two men. The light from within 
fell on them clearly, and the elder Pollard shrunk from it and drew 
behind his partner. 

” What do you want?” cried the man, gruffly — he was none other 
than the host of the Three Tuns. 

Charles Pollard whispered a few w^ords to him. 

“ Wliat!” said the man. ” Not possible! Mr. Stanley? Why 1 
shouldn’t a-knowed you from Adam. Who is that other fellow?” 

” A friend; is the captain here?” 

“The captain? Which captain? They’re both gone, over two 
hours ago. But come in, sir— come in. I’ve got a letter for you. 
Captain Yates expected you would come, but 1 didn’t know you in 
that rig.” 

He made room for them to enter, and shut the door and locked it. 
They found themselves in a small bar-parlor reeking with the fumes 
of hot spirits and tobacco. Some one appeared to have been sitting 
with mine host, for a half-finished glass of hot gin and a long clay 
pipe, from which the smoke still curled upward, lay on the table, 
while another long clay was still between the landlord’s fingers. 

Stepping across the room and closing the door, which led to a 
passage, or room beyond, Charles Pollard turned epiickly to the pub- 
lican, and in a tone the anxiety of which could not be concealed, 
said, 

“ You say that Captain Yates has gone?” 

“ Y^es,” said the man, peering curiously at the speaker and his 
companion; “ why, sir, what’s the meaning of this mummery?” 

“Oh, nothing; only a joke 1 was going to play on him. Of 
course he’ll be back directly — he was to meet me here at eleven; 
where is the letter?” 

“ Meet you here at eleven?” said the stout man, laughing till his 
sides shook. “ Well, that is a joke! Why, he’s away, sir — sailed 
in his yacht two hours since — he’s nigh Margate by this time, for 
she goes like a swallow.” 

“Sailed!” shouted the two men together, in a tone penetrated 
with such anguish as to strike the ear of the man at once, and rC' 
veal to him the depth of their disappointment. 


A WEEK OF PASSTOir. 


243 

Steamed— it you like it better,” said the mau; “gone off, 1 
b’lieve, to Havre. But here’s his letter; you can see for yourself.” 

Charles Pollard, who had dropped llie basket on the table, tore 
open the envelope, which was addressed to “.Samuel Stanley, 
Esquire,” and read: 


‘ ‘ Private and confidential. 

“ Yacht • Vera,’ Tuesday, 8.30 p.m. 

“ My dear Pal and Patron, and most estimable Quack 
OP Quarrels, — Next time you have business of importance with 
a gentleman ot my position and experience you had better keep the 
appointments he makes with you. 

“ ‘ O come in life’s gay morning, 

Ere in thy sunny way 
The flowers of hope have withered, 

And sorrow encls thy day.’ 

“ I intended this afternoon, if you had done me the honor to come 
to Clement’s Inn, to tell you that I had leceived from a friend in a 
certain office not one hundred yards from the Ad— y, information 
which led me to conclude that the sooner 1 changed my native air 
for that of some more genial and remote southern climab*, the bet- 
ter for my lungs— and neck. But as you did not choose to come at 
my call, and tlie hour jmu have 'fixed is inconvenient, 1 am com- 
pelled to lake advantage of the tide, wdiich, as you are aware, waits 

for no man, and get out of the reach of that octopus in S d 

Y d as soon as possible, the more that we have the body ot one 

of his myrmidons on board, which w^e are anxious to consign to the 
secrecy of the deep blue sea. I sincerely regret that I am unable 
to offer you and your friend a passage in the ‘Yera.’ 8he is a 
beautiful boat, and your agreeable company would have greatly en- 
hanced the pleasures of the voyage. 

“ With regard to the payment of that little, balance you owe me, 

1 am disposed to be generous, and hereby grant you a receipt and 
quittance in full— you see 1 sign over a Id. stamp — in virtue of the 
sum you advanced me on account of the purchase- money ot this 
vessel, which 1 propose hencefortii to treat as ray own, and of a 
further sum of £5000— receipt whereof is hereby acknowledged— 
which 1 and Captain Sweeny — who is an old pal of mine— have dis- 
covered cleverly concealed in a pair of old hunting-boots in the 
locker under your own private berth. Were it bootless to say that 
it more than covers all the lervices 1 have ever rendered you — and 
that we will settle accounts next lime we meet? 

“ Ta-ta, my dear Q. Q., and many thanks. 

“ lifours in the fellowship ot saints. 

“ T. Yates. 

“ P. S.— By the way, 1 caught a glimpse to day in your ‘ Fields ’ 
of the smug phiz of one of Sontag’s moiichards, named Garbett — 
and 1 could swear 1 saw him hanging about the Three Tuns just as 
my boat put off. Look out for him, and give him a wide berth. 
Adieu! 1 send this ashore by one of Rodney’s boats. Just off.” 

Who could paint the feelings of rage, disappointment, terror, and 
despair with which Charles Pollard read this hideous product of 


A WEEK OE PASSlOEf, 


2U 

criminal cynicism? One would imagine that hanging would bO 
almost bliss compared with the furious, sharp- biting agony of such 
a moment as he then endured. Even through the black upon his 
face his uncle could see what a terrible commotion was going on 
within; for his brows were contracted, his eyes seemed starting from 
his head, his teeth were clinched, and he breathed heavily. The 
landlord noticed it. 

“ No bad news, 1 hope, sir,” he said, in a tone which rendered it 
impossible to tell whether his interest was feigned or sympathetic. 

Charles Pollard started, and by a powerful effort managed to 
articulate, 

” No, except that Captain Yates is an infernal villain. Will you 
give us two hot whiskeys, Rodney— quick?” 

The man left the room, and Charles Pollard, the letter grasped 
convulsively in his hand, dropped on a chair. 

“For God’s sake, what’s the matter?” cried the uncle, in a 
hoarse whisper. 

” Yates has cut with the yacht and the money. Read that. ” 

Fishing out of the pocket of his dirty waistcoat his gold 'pince-nez, 
which he had not forgotten amid all the excitement of his flight, 
Joseph Pollard stuck it on his nose, and deliberately began to read.. 
The other, with his hands in his pockets, kept his eyes on the 
ground, and from the movement of his lips and the jerks of his body 
it might be guessed that he was internally cursing Mr. Tom Yates 
with all the minuteness of a Dominican and all the savage intensity 
of an Arab or a Turk. The elder PoUard’s lips were pressed tightly 
together as he read, but otherwise his face and attitude were calm. 
The calmness was ominous and menacing. He had just finished 
his reading when the landlord returned with two steaming jorums 
of whisky. By a common impulse both the men stretched out 
their hands and drank oft the hot liquid without stopping. In their 
excitement they were hardly conscious of any sensation. 

The landlord stared. 

“ Two more, Rodney,” said Charles Pollard, “ in about five min- 
utes. There’s a sovereign.” 

Both were silent tor a hill minute after he had left the room, each 
engaged in his own thoughts. The rage that filled their souls 
crushed out for lhat brief space all their anxiety about their situa- 
tion. To have been done by such a scoundrel— the accomplice and 
chief agent of their crime — plundeied, deserted, and, in the very 
crisis of their peril, deprived of the means of escape they had so 
craftily provided; lobe laughed at and made the butt of his cold, 
cruel sarcasm in the hour of their deepest humiliation was a punish- 
ment indeed, bitter to the taste as apples of Sodom, branding to the 
spirit as red-hot iron to the flesh. It burned itself in with pain and 
hissing. 

The senior partner in this community of crime had also sunk on 
a chair, and forgetting his disguise, played with the gold glasses 
w’ith his wonted air of pompous abstraction when engaged in dis- 
cussing important matters of business. The figure and attitude 
would have been ludicrous had they not been so dreadful. 

Charles Pollard cast a glance at him sidewise. 

“ What are we to do?” he said, in a rapid undertone. “That 


A WEEK OF PASSlOK- 


fellow will be back in a moment. AVe haven’t a minute to lose. 
You see what he hints at in the postscript?” pointing to the letter 
clutched in his uncle’s hand. ” 1 have about four thousand in the 
bag, and all that money in Paris. Stay, here he comes; drink it 
up quick, and let us get outside.” 

The elder made no reply. He was still fumbling with his glasses 
and thinking deeply. Rapidly he was passing in review all that he 
had gained and lost in that life of over threescore years, which had 
begun so brightly, and which had brought him to thi.s— to be flee- 
ing in a mean disguise from the bloody sword of justice. He was 
tliinking of his wife, who had lived with him in the same house in 
Regent’s Park, every inch of which was familiar to him, for over 
thirty years, whose hair, like his own, was silvered with age, who 
within a few hours w’ould learn of his flight and his dishonor, per- 
haps of his crime. He was thinking of his son, a lieutenant in the 
Engineers, now serving in India, who had been mentioned in dis- 
patches for brilliant services during the Afghan War; of his 
daughter, married to a Court physician, a knight; of his younger 
son at Cambridge, full of promise and ambition, which would to- 
morrow be extinguished in the pitchy shame of his father’s sins. 
He was thinking of the sturdy old firm of Pollard & Pollard, which 
liiid flourished like a mighty tree, with its roots deep in vast estates 
and rich inheritances, in wealthy corp(»rations and flourishing 
businesses, and yet whose fame and vigor would to-morrow, at the 
touch of the Ithuriel spear of Justice, wither, shrink up and rot 
away, its very name to become a by-word of ignominy. 

Silently taking the glass fiom the landlord’s hand, he sipped and 
mused, while Charles Pollard nervously chatlered to the man, and 
affected to joke at the trick his friend had played liim. In two 
minutes they rose up to go, the landlord letting them out at the 
door by which they had entered. 

“ Well,” he said, aloud to himself, as he locked the door, ” this 
is a rum go! 1 b’lieve that chap Stanley is a lawyer, or something 
of that sort. Looks as it Cap’n Y ates owed him some money, and has 
given him leg-baij. Well, it’s none of my business, howsomever; 
so long as they all pay their shot, they may come and go as much 
as they please; but 1 never saw a better mummery, no, not in a 
theayter. You couldn’t have told them two from plumbers till 
they began to speak.” 

“What’s that you say?” said a man, entering from the other 
room and sitting down beside the grog and pipe he had left when 
the knock came to the door. 

•Jr ***** * 

Charles Pollard, shouldering his bag, which was pretty heavy, led 
the way slowly along the river-bank in front of the houses before 
referred to, his uncle follo^^iog, with bowed head, mechanically, 
walking as in a dream. There were some small wharfs and tim- 
ber-yards in this direction, and after tramping in silence lor nearly 
a quarter of an hour, having diverged inland to avoid them, they 
returned and continued to walk alongside the dark, glistening 
river. The public-houses were emptying, and they met little knots 
of wrangling or stolid creatures staggering to such places as each 
called home. The two mean-looking men who passed them carried 


24G 


A WEEK OE PASSION. 


enough gold to have made tliem all rich for a year, and yet them- 
selves had no fixed destination — still less a home. That word for 
them was dead and meaningless forever. 

At length they had passed beyond houses, except where the dark 
outline of acottaire or outbuildiim rose up here and there, and pres- 
ently (heir feet were on grass. They had passed a shed close to the 
river, apparently a boat-shed, when Charles Pollard suddenly 
stopped. 

“ Hark!” he said. ‘‘ Did you hear steps?” 

” Ko,” said the senior partner, in a sullen tone. ” What if there 
were?” 

The junior listened again. The night was clear and starlit. The 
great riVer moved on black but gleaming, with here and there lights 
twinkling on its bosom. They were on a slight elevation. Look- 
ing bark, they could see the lights of Gravesend, across the stream 
those of Tilbury. The deep, monotonous throbbing of a steamer 
coming up the river, and its own soft, incessant murmur as it ran 
to the sea, alone broke the silence. 

” jVhere are you going?” said the elder, in a strange, mnftled 
voice, as he threw down the piping with a thud on the grass. 

” On,” replied Charles Pollard, gloomily, making as if he would 
go forward. ” On; we must not stay in Gravesend. Let us get to 
Dartlord. Our only chance now is to go to Folkestone, and straight 
on to Spain. We must stop and ask our way when we get on a 
little further.” 

“Stop, Charlie,” replied Joseph Pollard, “I’m not going any 
further.” 

lie had suddenly awakened from, his walking dream. Ills mind 
was clear again. His voice was cairn and determined. 

“Not going any further!” cried Charles Pollard, vainly trying 
to make out in the darkness the features of his uncle, which‘had 
been so carefully blurred by lamp-black. “ What do you mean to 
do?” 

“ Charlie,” said the old man. “I’ve had enough of this; 1 can’t 
stand it any longer. There is no use fighting against fate; w^e have 
made our bed, and we must lie in it, 1 am going back to give my- 
self up — you m.ay run aw^ay if you like— 1 won’t go another step!” 

“ What!” shouted Charles Pollard, in a voice of mingled rage and 
terror. “ Give yourself up, Uncle loe! Are you crazy? Why, 
you will swing at the end of a rope in Nuw’gate, and I too! How 
am I to get oti, 1 should like to know, if you go and confess every- 
thing? No, no, you sha’n’t do that!” 

“1 will,” said the older, in a deep, detorrainod tone. “My 
mind’s made up; so good-by, Charlie— God help you— and mo too! 
we’ve made a sad mess of it;” and a hollow groan escaped from his 
chest. He held out his hand. 

“ Nonsense,” said Charles Pollard; “ don’t waste time here; 
every minute is valuable. Come along; we shall manage it yet.” 

“ Very well, Charlie, if you won’t shake hands 1 must go with- 
out. Good-bye, 1 say;” and he turned and took a step or two. 

Charles Pollard was in front of him in an instant. 

“Turn back, old man — turn back!” he said, fiercely. “You 
shall not go back. ” 


A WEEK OE PASSIOIS'. 


247 

** I will!" aaicl Joseph Pollard, all his savage doggeduess coming 
up. “ Stand out of my way, 1 say, and go yours." He tried to 
pass. 

“You shall not," said Charles Pollard, in a' low, determined 
tone, as he placed himself once more in front of the other and seized 
him by the arm. The uncle, still a powerful man, struggled to free 
himself. 

“ Leave go, sir," lie dealt bis junior partner a blow with his fist 
which made him stagger. The latter dropped his bag, stepped back 
a pace, and quickly putting his hand in his bosom, brought it out 
again. “ Stand aside, Charles Pollard!" 

“ I won’t. Are jou determined to go back?" 

“ Yes;" he moved forward. At the same moment Charles Pol- 
lard’s hand stretched out — at the same moment something in his 
hand touched the old man’s breast —at the same moment there was 
a flash and a report, and with a hnv groan Joseph Pollard sunk to 
the earth. And it almost seemed to Mr. Charles to be at the same 
moment that he heard a sound as of something brushing over the 
grass behind him, felt a cold muzzle pressed to his ear, and heard 
the voice of Mr. Garbett say, (juietly, rapidly, 

“Don’t stir; drop your pistol, or 1 shoot. 1 arrest you in the 
queen’s name!" 

But Garbett had not calculated on the desperate daring, or rather 
resolution, of Charles Pollard driven to bay. The detective, holding 
his revolver wlthTiis left hand and standing behind his prisoner, had 
seized with his right hand the latter’s arm. The grip was firm; 
but Charles Pollard shook it olt, and cocking his revolver, was in 
the act of turning on his assailant, when the trigger of Garbett’s 
pistol fell, and tbe junior partner involuntarily joined the senior on 
a longer journey than they had contemplated. They had been 
partners in business and in crime, and in death they were not 
divided, 

* ^ * * * * * 

In the middle of the night, or rather when day was beginning to 
lighten the hemispheie, Mr. Sontag was roused out of a slumber 
which appeared to be undisturbed by the immense variety of fright- 
ful facts and painful secrets of which his brain was the pantechni- 
con. His attendant, who, like a doctor’s servant, was accustomed 
to these noctuinal alarums, entered, and told him that Garbett was 
waiting without and anxious to see him immediately, 

“ Come in, Garbett," shouted the detective, sweeping his brain 
clear in a moment of all the clouds of sleep. “ Turn on the gas, 
Martin, and leave us." 

“ What time is it, Garbett?” 

“ Three-fifteen, sir; just arrived from Gravesend. 1 posted." 

“ Gravesend? Why, what’s the matter? you look as white as a 
sheet." 

The detective was standing in exactly the same position as we 
have before desciibed, his head on one side, his eyes motionless, his 
hands crossed in front holding his hat. But his hair was In dis- 
order, his under jaw seemed limp, and incliiiod to drop away from 
his face; under his eyes there appeared to be h>vo dark bags; his face 
was, indeed, altDgether ghastly. 


248 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


“ Bad news, sir!” 

‘‘ Bad news? Why— what— have the Pollards got off? If they 
have — ” 

” ’Xcuse jne, sir, they’ve gone to the devil — both dead.” 

‘‘ The devil they have!” cried Mr. Sontag, sitting up in his bed 
and gazing at Garbett. ‘‘ You don’t mean to say they are dead— 
not both ot them?” 

‘‘ Both, sir.” 

” Suicide?” 

“ One was a murder— the other — accident.” 

” At Gravesend?” The detective nodded. ” What were they 
doing there?” 

“They were going to run away— in a yacht, sir, with Captain 
Tates.” 

Mr. Sontag gave a long whistle, threw off the clothes, and thrust 
his legs out of bed, silting now on the edge of it, facing his man. 

‘‘ Here’s a letter, sir, 1 found in the hand of Mr. Joseph Pollard, 
the old man, after his death.” 

The chief detective took the letter and ran his eye over it. Ilis 
quick intelligence appreciated the entire situation in a moment. lie 
burst out with a hearty laugh, while Garbett, who was in no laugh- 
ing humor, stared at him with a kind of wooden surprise. 

‘‘ Well,” said Mr. Sontag, ” for cool, clever, audacious cynicism 
this beats anything 1 ever read. I wouldn’t have missed this for a 
hundred pounds, 1 don’t wonder at any one cutting his throat 
after receiving such a letter as that. 1 think 1 should myself.” 

‘‘ lie didn’t cut his throat, sir. Charles Pollard shot Joseph Pol- 
lard before my eyes — to prevent his peaching; and while 1 was 
trying to arrest Charles 1 shot him — by accident, sir; but if 1 hadn’t 
he would have shot me.” 

” Oh Lord, Garbett!” cried Mr. Sontag, getting up and walking 
about tlie room in great agitation. ‘‘ What a mess you have made 
of it! Why, man, we have secret information to-night which satis- 
fies us they were the instigators of Barton’s murder, and flrere was 
such a nice little job for us to make up the missing links! You ace 
this fellow Yates is one ot the accomplices. Is he off?” 

‘‘ Yes, sir.” 

” That yacht must be caught. We will telegraph at once all along 
the Channel. But, oh, Garbett, Garbett, this is a terrible disap- 
pointment; it was a beautiful case — a beautiful case!” He walked 
up and down in his bare feet, with his head down, shaking his head 
and repeating—” All our labor lost— such a splendid case too!’ 

He then questioned Garbett closely, but rapialy, as to his pro- 
ceedings after leaving on his afternoon’s expedition. How the two 
fugitives had managed to elude the vigilance of tlwj four detectives 
put on their track — two to each partner— was ot course as yet un- 
known to either of the offlcecs. 

Garbett, it appeared, had disguised himself and gone forth to look 
up Yates in certain haunts of his wdiich had become known to the 
police, in connection with the inquiry into the affair at the Melton 
Club. He soon discovered that the captain had not changed his 
quartersv— which, with a judicious boldness, he had for some years 
maintsfined, at least ostensibly, in Duke direct, St, James’s, At 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


249 

half past six he had seen him enter those quarters, whence in about 
twenty minutes a boy had issued and summoned a hansom, into 
whicri the captain, clad in a blue yaclitin<; costume and carryiiig a 
small travelinj^-ba^, had entered with the boy and driven to Fen- 
church Street. At Gravesend he had gone to the Three Tuns, and 
remained there until a gig came off from a fine steam-yacht lying in 
mid-stream, which forthwith conve 3 ’^ed him on board, followed soon 
after by a boat of Rodney’s. This boat came back; the yacht raised 
auchor and steamed away, leaving Mr. Garbett to his reflections. 

Turning into the public-house with the view of making some in- 
quiries, he had struck up an acquaintance with mine host, and was 
graduall}'' sounding his way amid the mud-banks of that wortliy 
person’s mind, when two men knocked at tlie door, and he was 
asked to wait in the next room. He had not been able to see them 
or t(» overhear their conversation, hut on returning to the room he 
had caught a few words about the cleverness of their disguise, which 
immediately put all his detective faculties on the alert, and he had 
set off to follow the men, still with hardly more than a taint suspi- 
cion of their identity, for he did not believe it possible that they 
could liave eluded the sharp watch he had put upon their move- 
ments. It was only when crouching under the side of the small 
shed we have mentioned that he cauglit and recognized the sound 
of their voices in the silence of the night, and dimly distinguished 
their movements. Cocking his revolver, he had resolved to rush 
forward and offer the old man an opportunity of giving himself up 
at once, when the flash and report settled the dispute, and then 
ensued the fatal result which grieved Mr. Sontag as much as it he 
1 ad lost a large inheritance. 

“ Well,” said Mr. Sontag, with a deep sigh — “ well, there is no 
use crying over spilt milk. The most we can do now is to catch 
the subordinates;” he had been dressing while he spoke. ” We 
will go across and telegraph to all the French and English norts at 
once^ We can leave the transatlantic till io-morrow; and mind, 
Garbett, we must keep this quid for tw^enly-four hours. Where 
are the bodies— af. Gravesend? Good. We will get the inquest 
posiponed till Friday. Come along. There is no rest for the 
wicked. But — what a pity! what a pity! It was a beautiful case!” 


CHAPTER XXL 

A NOBLE LOVE. 

Overcome by the fatigue and excitement of tw’o days of peniten- 
tial passion, the earl slept better after his final act of repentance than 
he had for many a week. The wrong done to his sister, the Count- 
ess of Tilbury, had been fully repaired so far as material interests 
w^ere involved, though the breach of faith stood unconfessed, as it 
was still unknowm, to her. How far a man can be said to have per- 
formed an ample penance in such circumstances is a matter we must 
leave to tliose troublesome dealers in conundrums, the casuists. 
These secret repai-ations, made without disclosure to the person 
wronged, without submitting to the humiliation and unpleasantness 


A WEEK OF PASSTOK. 


250 

of a personal confession, without receiving the seal of personal for- 
giveness, are common enough, as Ihe columns of the “ Times ” and 
the accounts of the Chancellor ot the Exchequer used weekly to 
show, when superstition had a stronger hold on people than it ap- 
pears to do now, tor the number ot bank notes acknowledged to 
iiave been received by that official on account ot unpaid income-tax 
has largely diminished. Clearly it is nobler, as it certainly is more 
salutary, for a man to stand up and lake the full penalty ot his sin 
than to avoid its most painful consequences by concealing from the 
injured person the nature of the wrong or the personality of the 
wrong-doer; but, on the other hand, there was much force in the 
peer’s own argument that to have had a frank explanation with his 
sister would have given her more pain than either comfort or profit, 
and have overshadowed the relations between them for the few short 
years of life which were left to them. We do not undertake to pass 
any judgment on the question, leaving the character of the Earl of 
Selby to" be estimated by every one according to his or her own 
lights. Enough to state the facts. We have seen, too, that his only 
confidants, both very fresh and very young casuists, it is true, ap- 
peared to concur in his view of this knotty point of conscience. 

But when, on Wednesday morning, the earl’s eyes, refreshed by 
slumber, opened on the light of a new day, the relief which his con- 
science had experienced from the drastic remedy he had adminis- 
tered to it the night bet ore, was to some extent counteracted by the 
entirely different anxieties arising out of Lady Blanche’s confession. 
His pride was deeply wounded, the cherished hopes of many years 
were rudely blasted, and all owing to Ihe awkward perversity of 
young love. George Barton was essentially everything that even 
such a judge and critic as the earl could have desired the man to be 
who should wed his daughter; but the accidents ot rank, race, and 
fortune were wanting, and left Ihe ambition of the haughty noble- 
man all unsatisfied. What would the world thinK ot such a match? 
What would not be the disappointment of Lord Tilbury, the grief 
ot his mother? 

Bapidly, excitedly, sometimes angrily, the earl’s mind worked, 
while he was dressing, at this disagreeable subject. His candor 
obliged him to admit that Barton’s behavior had been irreproacha- 
ble. He even went further, and thought that it implied the posses- 
sion ot qualities which served to complete the roundness ot a great 
and perfect character. When he turned to his daughter, whose act 
liad evoked the fatal complication, he saw in it so inucli that was 
generous, noble, fnink, and pure, so much resembling his own im- 
pulsive chivalrousness ot disposition, that he could not help admir- 
ing and sympathizing, while he fumed and fretted over the conse- 
quences. Then he asked himself whether this was not another of 
Ihe humiliations which fate had prescribed by way of tonic for his 
errors; for it was clear that but for them the situation would never 
have arisen. And now, how -was he to act? He owed young Bar- 
ton much, but he estimated that the services could have been fully 
paid with far less than this. As for Blanche, what could be say or 
do after that scene of the night before? She’ had conquered him, 
she had optmed her heart to him, she had opened his and gazed into 
its secret depths as no human being had ever done— not even his 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


251 


wife — with all the forcible insight of a clever and loving woman. 
Lady Blanche had shown him, too, that, great as was her aftectiou 
tor him, she had developed into a character of povjerful individu- 
ality, She would be and do all that a daughter, loving, sympathiz- 
ing, sacrificing, ought to be and do; but she would not yield one 
jot of her prerogative as a woman. Her hand and heart must go 
together whenever they were given ; otherwise, as her words showed, 
they would not be given at all. Barton should woo her only with 
her lather’s permission, but she let her father understand that, even 
with such a permission, the citadel of her heart was closed and de- 
fended to every other. He was keen enough to foresee all which 
was implied in that. It was owing to just such a spirit, to just such 
a determination, that his own married happiness had been secured, 
in spite of endless intrigues and the imperative orders of his late 
wife’s parents. Had not happiness come to that forbidden contract? 
\es; but then his wile had only rejected one Earl of Selby to ac- 
cept another, and Lady Blanche was throwing over half the peerage 
for Mr. Barton. 

Lady Blanche, although her cheeks indicated that she had not' slept 
well, and the languor of her manner plainly showed how emotion 
had been preying upon a young, elastic system, w’as quite as self-pos- 
sessed as her father when they met at the breakfast-table. There 
was a certain emphasis in her touch of his hand, in the kiss she im- 
printed on his cheek; but only he appreciated it. Lord Charles was 
an observant young gentleman, and on the alert that morning, after 
the curious night promenade of which he had received as yet no 
explanation, but he could not detect anything extraordinary in the 
manner of his father or liis sister. They talked about the letters 
which had come in, chatted with Mrs. Barton, laid out plans lor the 
day, and the earl glanced over the papers, but no reference was 
made to the subject concerning which the young lord’s curiosity was 
keenly alive. The earl, however, who without seeming to do so 
read him like a booK, at length said, quite simply, 

“ We abandoned you last night, Charlie. 1 went to make some 
inquiries at Scotland Yard, and Blanche must needs take the air m 
a hansom to keej) me company.” 

Lord Charles perfectly understood that he was to accept this as a 
complete explanation, and did so for the time, hoping that his sis- 
ter would be more explicit by and by. 

The peer, of course, was ignoriint of that tragic solution of all 
Ids difficulties which the two Pollards and Mr. Garbett had arranged 
between them; but the morbid effects of guilt and fear were to a 
great extent removed, and his mind was all the freer to canvass that 
other trouble which had suddenly sprung up in his path. His 
diplomatic finesse was completely baffled in the effort to find a way 
round that impediment; but he resolved that he would go over and 
see Lord Tilbury, and try to ascertain how his feelings lay; for 
already he had gone so far in his determinations as to have settled 
that, unless the young peer evinced a clear resolution to win his 
cousin’s hand. Lady Blanche should have two years to ponder the 
important question of her fate, with full liberty of intercourse with 
Barton, but with the understanding that neither of the young peo- 
ple should come to any fixed arrangement, or permit the state of 


252 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


their feelings to be revealed to others. Later on in the day he would 
speak to Lord Charles, and make him the confidant of this species 
of secret family compact. He did not hide from himself that there 
was very little hope of improving the position by this concession, 
but it was a kind arid a proper one — and in two years no one knew 
what might happen. Besides, he felt it was due to his paternal dig- 
nity that he should not appear to have been forced into a submission 
which was repugnant to his piide. 

He walked across the park, and found the Countess of Tilbury 
joyous and relieved. The young peer was recovering rapidl 3 % spile 
of the acute disappointment he had experienced the day before. 
She was rather surprised at the calmness which had ensued upon 
it, and began to think that his feelings had not been so profound on 
the point as she had imagined. 

Tlie Karl of Selby promptly broached the subject which was oc- 
cupying his thoughts ,and soon learned all that had taken place on 
the previous day. His face clouded; that of the countess was 
troubled and puzzled. 

“ 1 can not understand it,” she said. “ For reasons which 1 may 
not even hint to you, 1 had a conviction that things would be ar- 
ranged. 1 know she did not feel any romantic affection for him, 
but 1 did hope that in time her feelings would become warmer and 
more decided— and the match was so fit. About this 1 have no doubt 
—he loves her as a man loves only once in a life time; and it grieves 
my very soul to think that he should ha%e to suffer, as he will 
suffer, by her indifference.” 

” Have you not guessed the reason?” 

” 1 can’t say that 1 have, 1 can not understand her. It appears 
to be a whim to me — who know a gooa deal you can never know,” 
said the countess. 

” She loves another man,” said the earl. 

‘‘ What!” cried the countess, perfectly thunderstruck, and utterly 
unable to reconcile such a statement with Lady Blanche’s conduct 
of no longer ago than Monday. ” Impossible, my dear earl — im- 
possible!” 

The countess’s tongue was endeavoring to beat down by emphatic 
reiteration a vague alarm that floated in her bram. She remembered 
tlie incident of yesterday, the tiff about Barton—but that was too 
insane an idea to nourish. 

” Impossible,” she cried again, ‘‘ from what 1 know !” 

” True, nevertheless; she confessed it to me last night,” said the 
earl. 

‘‘ Why, she must be crazy, my dear brother!” cried the countess, 
inanely. 

The peer shook his head with a troubled smile. 

‘‘lam afraid not,” he said. ‘‘ If she were, there might be some 
hope of curing the malady. Oh no. Her wits are as clear as ever 
they were.” 

” Do you know who it is?” 

” Yes; it is young Barton.” 

The earl spoke with perfect calmness, but the countess started 
and seized his arm, staring at him with an expression almost reach- 
ing the sublime of horror. She was as astonished at the calmness of 


A WEEK OF FASSIOK. 253 

his tone and manner in making the dreadful announcement as at 
the fact itself. 

“ Oil,” she said at length, “you are joking, my lord, or you 
would never speak of it so coolly as that,” 

“ My dear Dora, 1 never was more serious in my life — nor she 
either, 1 am sorry to say. And, what is more. Barton Knows of it — 
and returns it— as you may well suppose.” 

“It is absolutely incredible and incomprehensible!” said the 
countess, delivering heiself of the polysyllables in long-drawn ac- 
cents. She clasped her hands together, and looked at the earl with 
a face full of struggling doubt and confusion of mind. If surprise 
be an element of art, this stroke of Lady Blanche’s was in that re- 
spect supreme. 

“ Oh, what ought 1 to do?” said the countess. “ I have told you 
there are reasons, known only to me, why 1 can not believe this. I 
can not accept it as jmssible, 1 can not reconcile it with any notion 
of Blanche’s truthfulness or candor or common sense! And yet I 
promised her faithlully 1 would not tell a word to any one about it. 
1 leaven help me — what ought 1 to do?” 

The earl was surprised at this exhibition of feeling on the part of 
his sister, which he saw was based on some solid grounds of infor- 
mation. 

“ What is the nature of this secret?” he inquired, 

“ Why, it related to this very question — the state of her heart, 
the disposal of her hand. She discussed it with me no later than 
^Monday,” 

“ Is it inconsistent with her confession to me— her acknowledg- 
ment to George Barton that she loves him?” 

“To my mind, quite,” said the countess, who spoke candidly, 
though in fact her deduction was wrong. 

“You must be mistaken, my dear Dora,” said the earl. 
“ Blanche is too clear-headed, too brave and straightforward, to 
have said an)Thing inconsistent with the exact truth, 1 seem to be 
surrounded % mysteries just now. 1 can not guess at the nature of 
the declaration of wlpch you make so tremendous a secret. 1 only 
know’ his: whatever she thought or said on Monday, she knows now 
that she loves George Barton, or she would not have said so under 
circumstances which gave a peculiar solemnity to her confession of 
it both to him and to me.” 

“ Why, this is truly dreadful!” cried the countess — dismay, 
shock, surprise, grief, all combined in tone and look. 

Appreciation of a certain extravagance in this exclamation, and 
the accidents thereof, kindled^ into momentary sparkle the peer’s 
fine sense of humor, as a breath of wind wakes up the smothered 
glow of a burning “ spoil-bank ” at the mouth of a coal-pit — a sud- 
den gleam of light amid the blackness, lie gave a little laugh. 

“ is it so very tragic alter all?” he said, slyly. “ It is romantic, 
if you like, but our family has a tendency to that sort of thing.” 

“Not ours, William! 1 fear it was imported. Blanche some- 
times is very — very — Dreuchy — don’t you think?” 

There was a dangerous glow in the earl’s gray eyes, but he said, 
dryly. 

“ Like her mother, you mean? I thought you were very strong 


254 


A WEEK OF PASSION. 


on your IMorman descent, Dora. Didn’t the great William and his 
filibusters come from Frauce?” 

“ (Jh! but you know,” replied the countess, flushing, “that is 
diflerent; tliey weic Norsemen.” 

” How do you know? What liave you been dipping into — Green, 
Freeman, Nicholas? 1 rather think our family sprung from Anjou. 
And liave you any special and precise information that they were 
not pure Gauls or Cells?” 

” Don't lease,” said the countess. “ 1 never trouble myself about 
those questions; we are Normans.” 

” So was Marie; but with the nameless charm which France 
seems to lend to its rudest stock, which, in this rough country, we 
have managed through generations to lose, if we have acquired 
sterner and nobler qualities. Touch not that subject, Dora. "You 
can not mean to, but you do jar a harsh chord in my heart. She — 
was perfect.” lie sighed. ” 1 wisli she were here now!” 

The countess put her fiue-shaped hand caressingly on the back 
of his, and said, with feminine inconsequentiality, 

“At all events he has no Norman ancestry to boast of,” 

‘‘ What — Barton? Clearly Norman. 1 guess, with a little trouble, 
1 shall be able to get a herald’s certificate that his ancestor ‘ came 
over with the Conqueror.’ There is no difficulty there. We can 
soon arrange that.” 

lie smiled somewhat maliciously. 

” You are in a tiresome humor,” retorted the countess, changing 
the ground again. ” The son of your bailift!” 

She expected to see him wince under this little prick of the 
feminine bodkin, but, to her surprise, he showed no consciousness. 
He took it seriously. It really seemed as if he were anxious to en- 
counter this first trial of his pride and conquer it. Those small 
cuticular perforations were like cupping to a lumbago— a sort of 
irritating distraction of the pain. 

” Yes, but the son of an honest, an honorable, a most worthy fa- 
ther, and such a son as any noble of the land might be proud to 
own, if — ” 

‘‘ Oh, well,” cried the countess, impatiently, with a toss of the 
head, ” of course, if you have settled the matter In your own mind, 
there is no use — ” 

“But 1 haven’t, my dear Dora! This is just it. 1 never was 
more annoyed or woriied in my life. It is precisely the most super- 
ficially inappropriate and least essentially improper combination 
that 1 ever had to pass opinion on. She is a splendid girl; he is a 
noble, able, high-spirited fellow; he has rendered me great services; 
he is destined to a brilliant career; that career 1 can assure him; 
but, as you hint, he is a plebeian. No use tiying to gild that far- 
thing and pass it for a sovereign, it’s a ‘ browny,’ though the mint- 
age is quite as good as any other.” 

‘‘ Oh! you are becoming quite a Republican.” 

” No,” said the earl, lightly, ” 1 am only speaking as a naturalist 
—perhaps 1 should say numismatist— but jmu know that there are 
copper coins worth many golden eagles.” 

” Yes— old coins.” 

‘‘And he is uew, cU? Very good', 1 abandon numismatology 


A WEEK OP PASSIOK. 


255 

and molaplior. But seriousl}’' — I have told 5 ’^ou of the danger. 
Wl)at is to he done?” * 

” Put your loot on it at once; it is out of the question.” 

‘‘ Are you sure of Edward’s heart? Is there no doubt about his 
feelings?” inquiied the earl, his manner becoming more grave and 
anxious than it had been during his mischievous sparring with his 
sister. 

” IS'one; he loves her — madly.” 

The countess selected the hottest adverb she had at hand, but 
avail(^ herself of it with a sense of its exaggeration; so she added, 

” Kx least 1 mean profoundly. ” 

“ H’ml” said the earl, and, after a pause, looking now keenly at 
liis sister, “ Will he work for it — sacrifice for it — press it with all 
his might and main— make it the sole Imsiness of his life for two 
years?” 

” For ten, 1 am convinced. As for sacrifice, he will do anything 
tor her.” 

There was a singular fatality in this expression of the countess’s, 
which she emploj’-ed with one clear meaning, yet which was suscep- 
tible of two. 

” 1 must see him,’' said the earl, musingly. 

” You must; but say very little. He can not bear much yet, 
though he has picked up wonderfully. But, you dui^ht to know, he 
has taken a queer fancy into his head, i don’t understand it. He 
wants to see— that young person, you know.” 

The peer was amused at the pettiness of the countess’s malice 
against the troublesome youth. 

” You mean George Ijarion?” he said, with the most innocent 
air in the world. 

” Yes, you know I do. When Blanche was here Edward begged 
her to send the young man to see him to-day.” 

Tlie earl looked thoughtful, but he said, 

‘‘ Oh, he always liked Barton — a mere kindly wish, I suspect.” 

” 1 don’t think sd'. From his manner, I judge Edward has some 
design in his head. You know he is going to sell off his stud?” 

” In on sense! A convel’sion? Has Lord McCorquodale been 
praying with him?” 

” You are incorrigible,” said the countess. 

” At all events he can not wish to speak to him about Blanche, 
ni}’- dear Dora, and that is the subject in hand. I had better see 
Tilbury myself. My idea is to ask if he is prepared to serve, like 
Jacob, for ray Jiachel, for two 3 'ears, with the dilTerence that his 
reward is to be the girl’s lore — if he can vdn it; if not, then 1 sup- 
pose we must let it take its natural course Bartonwdse, How’ever 
deep our disappointment may be. 1 ‘feel unable to undertake to 
stand out against Blanche’s resolution.” 

‘‘ VYell,” cried the poor countess, astonished, puzzled, vexed, ” 1 
really do not know’ what has come orer everybody. Blanche’ is a 
mystery, Edward seems a changed spirit, and as for you—” 

‘‘I’m a pi’edestinarian!” interrupted the earl, putting his arm 
thi’ough his sister’s as they moved toward the door’. ‘‘ But se- 
riously, Dora, 1 have become, or am becoming, a very difterent 


256 


A WEEK OF PASSION'. 


mrin. 1 am thinkir^^!: of incluleinc: in the luxury of doing a lew 
good acts before 1 die — which may not be long now.” 

The countess looked at him gravely, but said nothing. His tone 
had touched her heart. 

When she had seen him seated at Lord Tilbury’s bedside, she 
made an excuse lor leaving them together. After a few questions 
and answers about his nephew’s health, the senior earl came im- 
mediately to the subject, and broached it in no light tone. 

” You have had a severe shake. Tilbury, and it must have made 
you serious. Thank Heaven, you seem to be out of danger. We 
must think now about your settling down to married life, ^ow do 
matters stand between you and Blanche?” 

” She will never be mine,” replied the young earl, with a sigh, 
“ but 1 wish to insure her happiness, and 1 am glad you have 
touched upon the subject, as 1 intended to have spoken to you 
about it.” 

” Youi mother whispered to me something about a disappoint- 
ment; but, my dear Edward, you know — ‘ faint heart ’—you must 
not give it up without an effort.” 

“Ah,” replied the young man, shaking his head, “it is not a 
faint heart tliat troubles me. My resolution is strong enough, if 
there were only a shadow of hope; but there is none. Her heart is 
already occupied, and with her 1 know what that means. 1 should 
never think of trying to turn out the man in possession— holding the 
indefeasible title of love. No, no. 1 have too deep an affection for 
her to desire anything but her complete happiness.” 

“ Why,” said Lord Selby, surprised, “ how do you know?” 

“ By intuition, my dear uncle— the intuition of a rival. Have 1 
not loved Blanche for years? Have I not watched her with all the 
fondness and keenness of a first affection? Have T not noted every 
movement of her heart — every hint given by her lip, her eye, her 
cheek? She hardly knew herself, as well as 1 did, wdiere her 
antipathies and predilections lay. She was always cool, disinter- 
ested. unmoved except when one was near her or speaking with her, 
and of late that was not often. The indications were so slight that 
they escaped every eye but mine, which had the clairvoyance of 
suspicion — of jealousy, it you like — though, God knows, without any 
of its malice, for the man himself is Vorthy, it his position and 
fortune are nothing to yours or mine. She loves George Barton— 
you may take my word for it.” 

“ You have detected that?” cried the earl. “ Have you had no 
hint?” 

“ None. It was enough for me to see her face when his name 
was mentioned only yesterday, after she had let me know, with in- 
finite grace and delicacy, that my own case was hopeless.” 

“It is true,” said the earl. “ She admitted as much to me no 
later than last night.” 

“ I knew it.” said young Tilbury, drawing a deep breath; “ and 
she must not be crossed. Such a girl as Blanche is must have her 
own way. You must not oppose it, my lord.’* 

“Astounding!” cried the Earl of Selby. “I came here for the 
express purpose of encouraging y^ou to press your suit. My idea 
was to put off a decision for two years.” 


A WEEK OE PASSION-. 257 

** You may put it oft for twenty with those two,” said younff Til- 
bury; ” it will make no difference. ISIo, my dear uncle, let me sug- 
gest something better than that. 1 have thought it all out. You 
know that ever since 1 understood the matter — forgive me for allud- 
ing to so delicate a subject—1 have never been satisfied that so much 
of my grandfather’s property whicn ought to have gone to you and 
yours should be coming to me, who have already more than 1 know 
what to do with.” 

” Say no more about that, Tilbury,” said the earl, in a choking 
voice. ” 1 have never given it a regret.” 

‘‘You? 1 know that, but 1 have; and 1 am uncomfortable about 
it. Kow, here 1 am — Blanche’s cousin — loving her with all my 
heart and soul, but unable to get her to accept me and mine. At 
least 1 can show her a cousin’s— a brother's affection, if you will— 
and, in order to smooth the way to the accomplishment of lier heart’s 
desires, 1 intend at once to instruct my solicitors to draw up a legal 
renunciation of all my rights of succession to the property coming 
from my grandfather Selby after my mother’s death in Blanche’s 
favor. Justice will be done; it is no more than justice. 1 shall lose 
nothing worth speaking ot, and she will then be able to marry any 
one she likes.” 

The Earl of Selby stared at the young man — moved, admiring, 
and then shook his head. 

‘‘ VYe will not discuss it, my dear boy; it is impossible for me to 
assent to it. Besides, ill as you now are, any disposition you might 
make would be nugatory. Indeed, you could do nothing more 
likely to defeat your own object. Whatever we may think of George 
Barton, we must do him the justice to believe that he would never 
consent to wed such a fortune as that until he could show some 
adequate counterpoise to it. Y’ou would postpone the wedding until 
he were chief- justice or prime-minister.” 

The young earl was struck by this argument. 

‘‘You are right,” he said, musing, ‘‘ 1 had not thought of that. 
No, it could not be done now; but it might be understood between 
you and me, and could be carried out afterward. 1 hoped 1 should 
be able to persuade Barton to agree to it, but 1 think you are right. 
It is better not to mention it at present, though my resolution is un- 
changed. There is one thing, however, we can do: we can assure 
him every chance of getting on. W e can launch him into political 
life with a strong backing. He is fit for anything, and will soon 
make his position. Will you promise to do that? Will you give 
your consent at once?” 

The Earl of Selby looked thoughtful; his eye rested kindly and 
regretfully on the fine^ earnest, pallid face before him. This noble 
sacrifice— sacrifice in a different sense from that conceived of by the 
countess— enhanced the value of that which he was to lose in Til- 
bury’s abandonment. Pure indeed, and high and holy, was a love 
which could act with a generosity so chivalrous and noble, and 
which sprung from the fine undersoil ot a nature whose belter quali- 
ties had hitherto been concealed under a maskof youlhful cynicism, 
frivolity, gayety, irony of tone and manner. 

‘‘ 1 have never liked you better than at this moment, Ned,” said 
the Earl of Selby, taking Tilbury’s white hand in his own. ‘‘ But I 

y ^ 


258 A WEEK OF PASSION. 

can not consent at once. Believe me, my reasons are sound, and I 
think judicious. The circumstances are very peculiar. 1 happen 
to know them all, but I can not explain them to you. It is only just 
to Blanche that she should have time to reflect on the matter, and 
we must give Barton an opportunity ot showing that he is wortliy 
of so high a prize. 1 have been able within the past few days, in 
the complications arising out of that frightful calamity, to observe 
and gauge his qualities, and 1 quite agree with you, they are excep- 
tionally high.” 

The countess entered the room. 

” 1 can not stay any longer,” she said to her brother. ” Faihlesse 
ohli(je— Well?” She glanced with anxious inquiry toward Lord 
Tilbury. 

” Mother,” he said, taking her hand, ” we have agreed upon 
what is best and right. 1 renounce a hopeless pursuit. There is a 
better man in the field— every way a noble fellow, though he is not 
of noble blood. Blanche loves him. You must help us to carry it 
through. 1 love her too much to stand in the light of her happiness 
even for an hour\ 1 am George Barton’s, heart and soul, because 
he is hers.” 

The countess was overcome by her son’s attitude in this sublime 
trial. She hid her face in her handkerchief; there was silence for a 
minute, the Earl of Selby gnawing his under lip, young Tilbury 
smiling at them. His agony was over. 

” Well,” said the countess at length, looking up, ‘‘1 confess I 
am surprised. 1 thought I knew you both as well as 1 knew my- 
self. But you have developed— both ot you — you especially, 
TV illiam — qualities 1 never suspected 5 mu of possessing, 1 thought 
jmur romancing days were over, and that nothing short of dynamite 
would have turned out the soft side of your heart.” 

“That is precisely what has done iti” said the Earl of Selby, 
significantly. 

” You mean the suddenness of this shock?” she said, gazing at 
him with a puzzled expression. ” Well, I can not, for the h'^nor 
of a Belby, allow you two to outdo me in generosity. Next to you, 
dear Ned, Blanche is my dearest child. Whalever you agree upon 
to make her happy, 1 shall join in with hand and heart.” 

They all stretched out their hands, and formed a little loving 
circle there, pledged to insure the happiness of Lady Blanche. 

The countess suddenly remembered something. 

” Can you tell me,” she said to her brother, ‘‘ what Mr. Barton 
wished to see me about when he called on IMonday? It was surely 
not this,” 

The earl started. His rapid talent helped him. 

” 1 believe he wished to get some information from you which he 
thought might have assisted him in clearing up the relations exist- 
ing between his father and the Pollards. But he obtained it from 
me. 1 am sorry to say, Dora, you and Ned here will have to change 
your solicitors. There are some very heavy charges floating over 
the heads of those men, but 1 have taken care to protect and secure 
your interests.” 

Thus Barton was relieved from an awkward explanation with the 
good lady, and the earl was free. 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


259 


] 


CHAPTER XXll. 

FliOM DAKKNESS INTO LIGHT. 

The hapless mortal battliug witn specters of enemies that are 
dead and ghosts of misfortuues which are imagiuar}^ while behind 
him — unknown, unseen, unsuspected— blessed realities of love and 
hope are standing smiling, only waiting to catch and delight his ej-es, 
is one ot the most dismal types of human fate. The time and energy 
and passion we waste in combating shadow^ of evil we ourselves 
coniure up, or ot perils whose substance has vanished! 

Such a mortal, such a picture of human fatality, v/as George 
Barton on the morning after the events which culminated in Mr. 
Sontag’s tragic disappointment, and at the very time when the 
winged hours were bearing in upon his destiny such various and 
lucky changes. There he was pacing his room, deep in thought, 
agitated, sweet mingling with bitter, cloud chasing sunshine, melody 
running through discord. The two horns ot the dilemma between 
which his mind and heart vacillated were still defined before him 
more clearly than ever — the one black, ugly, terrible; the other fair, 
white, polished as ivory, and wreathed with flowers. As one or 
the other showed its outlines to the eye of the mind, his face wore 
gloom or sunshine. In the window his birds flung out their melody 
in joyous trills and aaonies of sound, and every now and then, look- 
ing up at them with a smile, his heart seemed lightened with a 
vague hope. Then he would take out ot his bosom that little white 
token, with Her monogram in the corner tiyiiig to divine what 
secret message of comfort it was intended to convey to hkn, dis- 
tracted betw'cen the impulses of love and the commands of duty. 
How was it possible to reconcile these in his case? He had been 
hoping against hope— and against judgment too— that in some way 
the punishment of ihe Pollards’ crime might be secured without 
dragging the earl’s secret out to the light, exposing it to the eyes of 
malignant gossips and malicious partisans. But how could that 
jiossibly be avoided if the Pollards were driven to bay charged with 
a crime that involved their lives? He recalled having once been 
pi csent at the Old Bailey when an eminent counsel was defending 
a man whose criminality was hideous and flagrant, and he had 
watched the efforts of an acute mind, subtle in resource, replete 
with legal lore, unsparing in the use ot its weapons, as it strove, step 
by step, to distort the obvious truth, to disturb the equanimity of the 
judge, to contuse the senses of the jury, to abuse and discredit the 
witnesses, and all to win the questionable honor of gaining what 
seemed to -■be a hopeless case; and thinking ot the Earl of Selby 
obliged to face such a counsel in the witness-box, instructed by 
such a firm as the Pollards’, with every resource of money and of 
unprincipled legal skill, his heart shrunk within him at the very 
idea of forcing Blanche’s father to endure such an ordeal. He asked 
Ijimself how she would regard the man who should become, licwever 
innocently and unwillingly, the instrument ot divulging that shame- 
ful business to all the world? Yet he must do it oy write himscU 


260 


A. WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


down a craven son. And lie fell that the hour was come for casting 
the fatal die. Then, indeed, his anguish grew keen and fearful. 
But he had engaged with the earl not to act without notice to him. 
With a trembling hand, and only after a long agony of reflection, 
he took up his hat, and placing it on a burning brow, resolved to go 
forth and demand from Blanche’s father that perfect freedom of 
action vrhich, as his soul was conscious, involved the sacrifice of hiS 
love. 

But before he went to Portman Square he would fulfill his prom- 
ise to Lady Blanche to call and see the young Earl of Tilbury. 

******* 

Lady Blanche, scenting inquisitiveness in Lord Charles’s manner, 
had dexterously maneuvered to escape being alone with him by 
keeping Mrs, Barton near her after breakfast, and then retiring with 
her to what may be termed the women’s quarters in Portman Square. 
Thus she avoided any explanation. Lord Charles, having some tet- 
ters to write for his father, and all the French and English journals 
to glance through in the puisuit of that political knowledge which 
it was his ambition to attain, shut himself up in the library, where 
the lunch-bell surprised him long before he thought the hour had 
come. Almost at the same moment Colston announced George 
Barton, who had walked across the Park after his interview with 
the young Earl of Tilbury. The countess, at her brother’s earnest 
request, had driven over in a phaeton to see Mrs. Barton, and join 
the party at lunch. Deeply, indeed, was the heart of the grand dame 
touched when she met her old friend looking so altered and grief- 
stricken. They had been together for half an hour, when tlie tocsin 
that stirs up all the famishing, revolutionary, and predatory ele- 
ments of the inner man quite as vividly as the trumpets of the cap- 
tains in the famous siege of Mansoul aroused all the dormant forces 
of the garrison, as depicted by our greatest fabulist, rang out its 
shrill summons. Whatever had taken place during that interview, 
there was a chastened gentleness in the eye and manner of the 
Countess of Tilbury, and a sweet, quiet joy in the face of Mrs. 
Barton, as they came arm-in-arm into the dining-room, which au- 
gured well for the sootliing and subliming charactei of their talk. 

Lady Blanche, entering the room after them, was strangely moved 
when the countess took her in her arms and, kissing her on the 
cheek, whispered, 

“ 1 know all, my dear. Edward guessed it yesterday. We have 
been forming a little family league to insure you all you desire. 
What else could we do for such a resolute and arbitrary little minx? 
But oh, how sorry I am that 1 let you oft the other morning!” 

Blanche glanced, puzzled, at the countess, but she saw in a mo- 
ment that there was nothing in that kind and gentle face but happy 
resignation. She felt sure that the countess did not know ” all ” — 
that the earl’s secret had not escaped, to her at least. Then, as she 
turned her gaze on Mrs. Barton’s face, catching her line eyes fixed 
on her with loving admiration and content, she saw that some ex- 
planation of a favorable character had taken place. 

” What ilo you mean. Aunt Dora?” she said. 

” Your father has been over with us this morning. He and Til- 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 261 

bury have had a long talk. Edward behaved nobly, Blanche. You 
can never be grateful enough to him. He was the — angel’s advo- 
cate, 1 will say, in pieference to the other, you know.” 

‘‘Dear old Dolly!” said Lady Blanche, with streaming eyes. 
“ He could never do otherwise than behave nobly. The sorrow of 
disappointing him sadly mars my happiness.” 

As she was speaking the door opened, and George Barton came 
in with Lord Charles. Barton’s eyes turned first toward her ale to 
the loadstar of his fate. Except that momentary glimpse in the dark- 
ness, this was the first lime he had seen her since that precious hour 
in tlie Temple. She, conscious that ihe sentiment to which she had 
just given utterance might seem— unless sounded to its protoundest 
depths and properly analyzed — to be somewhat disloyal to love’s jeal- 
ous autocracy, blushed as she caught her lover’s eyes fixed upon her 
with tender but melancholy eagerness. The conversation he had 
held with the Earl of Tilbury would have brightened any man in a 
less mournful position than Barton’s. The young earl, without al- 
luding to the intelligence he had received from Lord Selby, had 
gradually led George up to an avowal of his love, speaking to him 
with engaging frankness, admitting that he had tnought of his 
cousin affectionately, and had desired her for his wife, but not dis- 
covering too much of his feelings, not exposing the depth of his pas- 
sion. He did not wish to magnify to his friend or to Blanche the 
service he was rendering. He promised cordially, even affection- 
ately, to stand Barton’s friend with all concerned, and to promote 
the end to which his cousin’s affections leaned; while he candidly, 
though delicately, let Barton know that it was for her happiness the 
sacrifice was made. To perform all this with perfect sincerity, and 
yet without wounding the amour propre of his friend, was certainly 
a nice and difficult task for the young earl, but one of which he ac- 
quitted himself with perfect success. It was a triumph of the 
purest devotion. For his part. Barton, in a trying position, had 
displayed a manliness and refinement of feeling, and a quick, gen- 
erous sympathy which excited the young earl’s admiration, and 
would have convinced him, were further proof needed by him. that 
the man whom Blanche had selected was fully worthy of the peer- 
less treasure of her love. 

But Tilbury’s quick eyes did not fail to perceive that in Barton’s 
cup of joy there were some drops of vinegar. There was a melan- 
choly in liis tone, a certain sadness in the deep darkness of his fine 
eyes, which the observer could not understand. Nay, once Barton 
had inadvertently let slip a phrase which had both astonisherl and 
wounded the young lord. The latter referred hopefully to the day 
which was to crown the triumph of his friend, when Barton’s face 
suddenly became clouded, while the words escaped him— only not 
commonplace, because of their subjective significance — 

“ Ah, we never know what may happen to quench our brightest 
hopes!” 

Tilbury, chilled, surprised, looked earnestly at his friend. 

** Oh,” he said, gravely, ‘‘ such good fortune as yours ought to 
have none but bright presentiments!” 

“ But only think, my dear Tilbury, how rude a shock to our 
confidence in thu smooth run of fortune anil happiness you and I 


262 


WEEK OF FASSIOK. 


have had within the week whose last hours are fast running; awayl 
1 must own that the nerves of my spiritual being have been roughly 
shaken, and 1 do not think my faith and hope will ever recover their 
old tone.” 

Tilbury never Knew the degree nor the grounds of the anguish 
with which these words were uttered, though they often returned to 
his memory in after years, when Barton was one of the strongest 
and happiest of men. 

And as Barton had swung across the Park at an easy pace, catch- 
ing a glimpse of the brilliant frivolity of the Row, glancing at the 
bright faces of the children who walked or gamboled on the turf, 
and whose fresh young voices told of life untroubled by care, un- 
shadowed by presentiment of evil, his heart grew heavy with the 
sense ot a coming crisis of pain and sorrow in his own life which, 
he thought, would never find a solace. Every impediment removed 
to his love for Blanche only intensified the pain of the sacrifice which 
he was called on to make. 

Thus, when he entered the room and looked at Lady Blanche, a 
sharp pain of anguish pierced his heart. The blush, and a slight 
confusion in her manner, the restraint which the presence and keen 
observance ot her aunt and her promise ot last night to her father 
imposed upon her, tended to increase her agitation. As he took her 
hand she felt his burning and trembling in her grasp, and there 
was a weary melaneholy in his eyes of which she vainly strove to 
guess the cause. The sharp glances of the two elder women were 
quick to discern these signs of separate and mutual perturbation; 
but before the scene coulii develop any awkwardness, the face of 
the earl appeared at the door, his eyes alight, his face flushed, his 
manner excited. 

“ A thousand pardons, ladies,” he said. ‘‘ AVill you kindly go 
on with lunch? Charlie will do the honors. Barton, 1 must speak 
with you immediately.” lie beckoned to him to follow.” 

Lord Charles looked at his sister and laughed, as he placed the 
countess in a chair. 

” 1 don’t know what is the matter with him,” he said. ” There 
is a storm or an earthquake coming. The atmosphere is quite elec- 
trical. 1 thought he was gone to the City, but liere he is. What 
think you, mine aunt, of bis driving Blanche there last night to 
Scotland Yard in a hansom, and their not turning up until midniglit 
— dumb, glum, m 3 ^sterious as ghosts? Mrs. Barton, 1 can vouch 
for the excellence of this curry; our chef was in India with the Gov- 
ernor of Bengal.” 

Meanwhile the Earl ot Selby had taken Ban on by the arm and 
drawn nim into the library. 

“ Barton,” he exclaimed, “ 1 have lust seen one of my new solic- 
itors — Mr, Masterman. The Pollards have bolted!” 

” What!” exclaimed Barton, an angry flush mounting to his tem- 
ples. ” Surely Sontag has not let them escape?” 

” Knox, Masterman & Bullen sent to-day to their office to get my 
papers. There everything was in confusion. It seems to me the 
two rascals went home to Charles Pollard’s, drove away w ithout be- 
ing seen by the detectives to a pretended appointment, and that is all 


A WEEK OP PASSIOK. 2G3 

they know at theii office. Neither of them has been seen or heard 
of since. Their wives and families are distracted.” 

‘‘ My lord,” said Barton, hurriedly, “ I must go' at once to Scot- 
land Yard. They must not escape — they shall not escape!” He 
clinched his hands and teeth. ‘‘My father’s lionor can only be 
cleared by their punishment!” 

The earl saw how powerful a struggle was going on in the young 
man’s breast as he uttered these words. 

“Stay!” said the peer; ‘‘ 1 will go with you. They can not pos- 
sibly escape. I saw both Sontag and the chief commissioner late last 
night. We passed yon, Blanche and 1, on our way home. They 
assured me both the Pollards were being closely watched, and if 
they have given the police the slip for the moment, depend upon it 
they will be stopped before many hours are over. A warning has 
been sent to every pare of the kingdom.” 

. George Barton listened, but was only gathering strength to per- 
form his resolve. His face had grown pale, his eyes were glowing 
with fire he could not suppress; for within him, even then, duty 
was doggedly resisting the soft, persuasive voice of love. 

‘‘ Still, my lord,” he said, firmly, ‘‘ 1 feel that 1 must act. At 
present there is no •charge whatever against these men. The revela- 
tion of their infamy can no longer be delayed — unless — unless — we 
are to connive at a failure of justice. And oh, my lord, forgive me 
— 1 don’t know how to say it! — alter all the kindness and confidence 
you have shown me, with my heart urging me to turn aside, to hola 
my hand, and let these villains go, Idare not, I can not shrink from 
the task of vindicating my father’s innocence, of bringing his mur- 
derers to ju.st ice. Y'ou can appreciate my position— I am sure you 
will — it is a dreadtul one; and there is something as yet unknown 
to you, which you may never learn, that makes it more dreadful than 
you can even imagine to ask your leave, as 1 now do— and my heart 
is torn and bleeding with anguish while 1 ask it — to reveal all 1 
know to the police.” 

The earl had watched him while his face betrayed the anguish of 
his feelings, and the beads gathered on his noble brow'. He seemed 
to force the words out through his pale lips with a terrible effort. 
Enlightened by the hint which Lady Blanche had thrown out the 
night before as to the fearful dilemma which was distracting 
George’s mind, he guessed all that was going on within that imung, 
strong bosom. The old cynic’s heart was touched and melted. He 
could have stopped him at the third sentence, but he had waited 
until he was quite sure of the line that George Barton had decided 
to take; for, knowing what a tearful temptation there was to post- 
pone, or altogether to evade, the action which filial affection and 
duty alike peremptorily demanded, he wdshed to see whether there 
would be the slightest shrinking or equivocation in meeting the 
call. And it was no mere curiosity which prompted tbe earl’s mo- 
mentary reserve. He w^as beginning to feel a strong movement of 
affection toward the youth who, in circumstances so rare and try- 
ing, had exhibited such remarkable resources of intellect, such ster- 
ling qualities of heart and conscience. It was the attraction which 
one strong soul feels toward another. 

“ 1 can blow away this trouble at a breath,” said the earl to him- 


A WEEK OF PASSTOK. 


2G4 

selt, “if it be genuine; and it will be better that he should have 
stood the test manlully, and borne it triumphantly, than that he 
should not have faced it at all.” 

But now he saw it had gone far enough. The trial was com- 
plete. He wanted no further proof that this youth would sacrifice 
life, ambition, and love to duty, not because he lightly regarded any 
of these— a reason which accounts for much of the old Spartan or 
chivalric heroism — but even (vhile he clung to all three with a vivid 
eagerness which intensified the agony of his self-abandonment. 

So the earl interrupted him, laying his hand kindly on his shoul- 
der. 

“ Pshaw! my dear boy,” he said, “ it is done— it is done! Don’t 
trouble yourself any more about that. 1 tojd the police everything 
last night, fhr more frankly and minutely than you would ever 
have told it.” 

Barton gazed at the peer tor a moment with a puzzled face; then 
a sudden sunshine flashed into it, with dew-drops in the eyes. 

“Oh, thank you— thank you, my lord!” he cried, seizing the 
peer’s hands and pressing them with feverish energy. 

nay, George,” said the earl, “don’t give me any credit 
for it. You must thank Blanche. Jt was she who thought of it, 
who urged me to it— who, indeed, would not allow me to sleep 
until it was done.” 

“ Ah, you do your own heart an iniustice.” 

“ Not at all; 1 say you must give her all the credit; and, if 1 
mistake not, from something she told me, sir, about which 1 have 
no time to say anything just now, you would rather be beholden to 
her for a good thing done than any one else in the world. Is it not 
so?” 

A sly smile had come over the earl’s face as he said these words, 
while Barton gazed at him confounded. 

“ You — you— know?” he gasped out. 

The earl nodded. 

“1 have to inquire into this,” he said, with an assumption of 
gravity. “ Both Blanche and Lord Charles appear to have been 
guilty of very unfilial conduct; and as for you, George, 1 could not 
have believed it possible, while j^ou were sitting here and acting the 
confidant and the mentor to a man more than twice your age, that 
all the while you were hiding a secret from me second only in im- 
portance, and, 1 should add, in its disastrous consequences, to the 
one I was confiding to you! Oh, George Barton, George Barton, 
you are the most dangerous diplomatist 1 ever had to cross wits 
with! 1 have been terribly punished for all the deceits 1 have prac- 
ticed and all the lies 1 have told for an ungrateful country, in find- 
ing myself outwitted at last by an unfledged barrister!” 

The young man could hardly trust his ears. Was Ihis really the 
proud Earl of Selbj’’ who appeared lo be speaking in a mock-serious 
tone of that whicU George Barion, who was a brave youth, too, 
would have shrunk from avowing to him as much as he would have 
recoiled from propounding Republicanism to a member of the royal 
family, or telling the Pope of Rome that Cardinal Manning had re- 
lapsed to Puritanism? His eager gaze sought and searched the 


A WEEK OE PASSIOI?-. 266 

depths of the earl’s gray eyes to try and read the meaning of this 
astounding frame of mind. 

“ My lord—” he began, and stopped, puzzled, troubled, trem^ 
bling. 

The earl smiled. 

“ You see,” he said, ‘‘I have a private detective department. 
Kay, the truth is, Blanche has betrayed you, and confessed all. 
But this must wait— this must wait.” 

” Mr. JSontag, my lord!” cried Colston, throwing open the door, 
and the Chief of the Detective Department walked in. He appeared 
excited and not displeased with himself. 

“ Forgive me, my lord, for intruding upon you, but I have most 
startling news, and I have taken the liberty of coming on with it 
myself. ” 

” Welcome, Mr. Bontag, whatever your news! 1 hope you have 
caught the villains,” cried the earl, in a tone so sincere that neither 
of his auditors doubted it, albeit Soutag marveled deeply to himself. 

“ From our point of view, my lord, it is better news than that, 
though personally 1 am terribly disappointed .by what has hap- 
pened. Both the Pollards are dead.” 

” Dead!” shouted the earl and young Barton together. 

A long sigh of relief escaped fr(<m the peer’s breast. Barton felt 
as it by a single stroke of an omnipotent pen his dilemma had been 
struck out of the records of his life. 

” Dead!” repeated Mr. Sontag. ” Execution has overtaken them 
before judgment. One died slain by the other’s hand, the other in 
resisting arrest. 1 say 1 am sorry, my lord (except for your sake— 
because it relieves you from any anxiety in regard to the matter 
you mentioned last night), for it was a wonderfully interesting case — 
one of the most interesting and beautiful cases in all my experi- 
ence. However, there is some compensation: we have secured, 1 
believe, the principal agent in the crime, it not the actual murderer 
and his assistants. A romance— a perfect romance! He had run 
oft in the very yacht which those two scoundrels had provided for 
their own escape by'purloining trust funds which lay in their hands. 
Between three and tour this morning she crme into collision in the 
Channel with a large steamer, and this man Y'ates, with the captain 
and crew, are all in our hands at Dover, along with the disabled 
yacht and ihe body of our missing detective, McLaren, The crew 
are all known vagabonds. 1 expect we shall swine’ up at least half 
of them, and w'e shall vindicate the honor of my department, and 
avenge the death of a very useful fellow. But permit me, earl, 
heartily to congratulate you upon the turn events have taken. You 
must feel greatly relieved that you will only have to face an inquest 
instead of a trial, and that the mouths of these villains are closed 
forever. Will you permit me to say that this is the only consola- 
tion 1 have for the unsatisfactory nature of tue deiwuement ?' * 

The peer held out his hand to the detective. 

” It is a verv terrible one, Mr. Bontag,” he said, “ but it would 
be idle for me to affect not to feel thankful that this awful business 
should have ended as it has. And I fancy that my young friend 
here will not be disposed to quairel with you as the bearer of such 
news, Care must be taken at the inquest to bring out clearly the 


266 


A WEEK OF PASSIOK. 


honorable part played by my poor murdered friend in all Ibis bush 
ness; and when his good name is cleared neither Mr. Barton, 1 am 
sure, nor 1 will feel any gratification at the fearful punishment 
which these wretched men have drawn down on their own heads.” 

After a brief conversation, in which they discussed together the 
course to be pursued at the inquest, the earl insisting that the re- 
ward he had promised should be placed at the disposal of the chief 
commissioner, to be allotted, as he might think fit, among the de- 
tectives who had been employed in the investigation, with a special 
reservation of £500 to the wife and family of McLaren, Mr. Sontag 
took leave. 

The earl accompanied him to the door. As he was leaving the 
room he said to Barton, 

” 1 expect you are no more inclined than 1 am to indulge in a 
lunch after such intelligence as has just reached us. Wait here a 
few minutes and I will join you.” 

Barton, left to himself, walked up and down the room, his hands 
clasped and pretsed tightly on his heart, which seemed to be ex- 
panding within him almost to bursting with relief, gratitude, and a 
sense of reviving strength and jo 3 ^ {Swiftly his thoughts ran over 
all the incidents and experiences, the quick variety of transforma- 
tions from hope to despair, from dread and grief to sweet delight, 
through that short— long week of passion, which had found him a 
youth and left him a man; and while he was thinking of the glori- 
ous comfort which had been born of his sorrow — as many a glad 
and noble life has sprung from the womb of anguish and death — 
the door opened, and Lady Blanche entered the room. {She seemed 
a little pale and agitated. 

” Oh, George,” she said, as he started forward and took her 
hand, ” what has happened? The earl called me out of the dining- 
room, and said some very grave intelligence had arrived, and he 
added, ‘ Go to the library— Barton is there; 1 suppose you would 
prefer hearing good news from his lips to any other,’ and he 
pinched my ear. What does it mean?” She was about to sink into 
a chair, but George Barton took her in his arms, pressed her to his 
heart, kissed her, and cried out, 

“Oh, Blanche, Blanche, don’t you know what it means? It 
means that all our troubles are over, and that you are mine — that 
you are mine!” 


THE END. 


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“Dora Thorne” 20 

468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 

of a Sewing-Girl. By Char- 
lotte M. Stanley 10 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

473 A Lost Son. By Mary Liuskill. 10 


MUNilO’S PtJBLldATlONS 


OLD SLEUTH LIBRARY. 


A Series of the Most Thrilling Detective Stories Ever Published! 


The following books are now ready. Others of this series in 

preparation. 


No. 1. OLD SLEUTH THE DETECTIVE. 

A dashing romance, detailing in graphic style the hair-breadth escapes and 
thrilling adventures of a veteran agent of the law. 

No. THE KING OF THE DETECTIVES. 

In this story the shrewdness and cunning of a master mind are delineated 
in a fascinating manner. 

No. 3. OLD SLEUTH’S TRIUMPH. 

IN TWO HALVES— 10 CENTS EACH. 

The crowning triumph of the great detective’s active career is reached after 
undergoing many exciting perils and dangers. 

No. 4. UNDER A MILLION DISGUISES. 

The many subterfuges by which a detective tracks his game to justice are 
all described in a graphic manner in this great story. 

No. 5. NIGHT SCENES IN NEW YORK. 

An absorbing story of life after dark in the great metropolis. All the 
various features of metropolitan life— the places of amusement, high 
and low life among the night-hawks of Gotham, etc., are realistically 
described in this delightful story. 

No. 6.-OLD ELECTRICITY, THE LIGHTNING DETECTIVE. 

For ingenuity of plot, quick and exciting succession of dramatic incidents, 
this great story has not an equal in the whole range of detective literature. 

No. y.-TIIE SHADOW DETECTIVE. 

This thrilling stoiy is a masterpiece of entrancing fiction. The wonderful 
exploits and hair-breadth escapes of a clever law-agent are all described 
in brilliant style. 

No. 8.-RED LIGHT WILL, THE RIVIIR DETECTIVE. 

In this splendid romance, lovers of the weird, exciting phases of life on the 
teeming docks and wharfs of a great city, will find a mine of thrilling 
interest. 

No. 9.-IRON BURGESS, THE GOVERNMENT DETECTIVE. 

The many sensational incidents of a detective’s life in chasing to cover the 
sharks who prey upon the revenue of the Government are all described in 
a fascinating manner. The story will hold the reader spell-bound with in- 
terest from beginning to end. 


The above works are for sale by all newsdealers at 10 cents each, or 
will be sent to any' address, postage paid, on receipt of 12 cents, by the 
publisher. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

V7 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York, 


P, O. Box 3761. 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

, 


GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
(P.O.Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


The following works contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary Edition, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for double numbers, by the 
publisher. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall ft Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

1934 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid 10 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

51 Kilmeny 10 


THE SEASWE LnmARY. -Orctimry Edition. 


63 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRA.DDON’S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 20 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

89 The Levels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle ' 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune. 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

287 Leighton Grange 10 

295 Lost for Love 20 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 20 

459 The Doctor’s Wife ! 20 

469 Rupert Godwin 20 


THE SEASIDE LI BRAUT.— Ordinary Edition. 


481 Vixeu 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World 20 

550 Fenton’s Quest 20 

562 John March mont’s Legacy • 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood... 20 

C41 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsl'eigh 20 

701 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

1469 Flower and Weed....' 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag lO 

1877 An Ishmaelite 20 

1915 The MistletoQ Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 

311 The Professor. , . 10 

• 


THE SEASIDE LIBRART.—Oidinary Edition. 


329 Wuthering Heights 10 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

1098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life 10 

552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisaude 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls : 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

1133 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love... 20 

1192 Vendetta; or, The Southern Heiress 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine; or, Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady . — 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 19 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story ' 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life. . 10 


Tm BKARmn LmUAnr.-^rh'dinafy EdiUm. 


651 The Yellow Mask 10 

683 Fallen Leaves ' 20 

654 Poor Miss Finch 20 

675 The Moonstone 20 

696 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 

1770 Love’s Random Shot 10 

1856 “I Say No” 20 

J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer. 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot ! 20 

585 The Water Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rovbr 20 

761 Wing-and-Wing , 20 

940 The Spy ' 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Walllug ford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

lb69 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins. .... 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or. The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 Hard Times 10 


TBE HEASIBE LinnABT-Ordmary Edition, 




118 Great Expectations 20 

187 David Copperfield 20 

5;00 Nicholas Nickleby 20 

.013 Barnaby Budge 20 

218 Dombey and Son 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) . r » . 10 

247 Martin Chuzzlewit 20 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

284 Oliver Twist 20 

289 A Christmas Carol 10 

297 The Haunted Man 10 

304 Little Dorrit 20 

308 The Chimes 10 

317 The Battle of Life 10 

325 Our Mutual Friend 20 

337 Bleak House 20 

352 Pickwick Papers 20 

359 Somebody’s Luggage 10 

367 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

375 Mugby Junction - . 10 

403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

521 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

625 Sketches by Boz ^ 20 

639 Sketches of Young Couples 10 

827 The Mudfog Papers, &c 10 

860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

900 Pictures From Italy 10 

1411 A Child’s History of England.. 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches 10 

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF “ DORA THORNE.” 

449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 10 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or, True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10 

746 Which Loved Him Best 20 

846 Dora Thorne ' 20 

921 At War with Herself 10 


TRE bB ASIDE LiDllAHy.-^Vratnftjry Ettttwh. 


931 The Sin of a Lifetime 

1013 Lady Gwendoline’s Dream 10 

1018 Wife in Name Only „..o 20 

1044 Like No Other Love .... 10 

1060 A Woman’s War 10 

1072 Hilary’s Folly 10 

1074 A Queen Amongst Women. 10 

1077 A Gilded Sin IQ 

1081 A Bridge of. Love.. IG 

1085 The Fatal Lilies 10 

1099 Wedded and Parted ... 10 

1107 A Bride From the Sea. ....... 10 

1110 A Rose in Thorns . . 10 

1115 Tlie Shadow of a Sin. ................. ,o, 10 

1122 Redeemed by Love 10 

1126 The Story of a Wedding-Ring...... 10 

1127 Love’s Warfare 20 

1132 Repented at Leisure 20 

1179 From Gloom to Bauiight 20 

1209 Hilda 20 

1218 A Golden Heart. 20 

1266 Ingledew House 10 

1288 A Broken Wedding-King.. ...... ............ ...... ...... 20 

1305 Love For a Day ; or, Under the Lilacs 10 

1357 Tne Wife’s Secret 10 

1393 1 wo Kisses. 10 

1460 Betw een Two Sins 10 

1640 The Cost of Her Love 20 

1664 Romance of a Black Veil. 20 

1704 Her Mother’s Sin .......... 20 

1761 Thorns and Orange Blossoms, ...................... .... 20 

1844 Pair but False, and The Heiress or Arne ....... .... .... .. 10 

1883 Sunshine and Roses 20 

1906 In Cupid’s Net — 10 

ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS. 

144 The Twin Lieutenants. ........ ........... ........ 10 

151 The Russian Gipsy 10 

155 The Count of ’Monte Criato m One Votume ). , . . , 20 

160 The Black Tulip 10 

167 Th^ Queen’s Necklace. , - ,^0 


THE SEASIDE LIBU ART. — Ordinary Edition. 


172 

184 

188 

193 

194 
198 
201 
223 
997 
228 
244 
268 
276 
278 
283 
298 
306 

^ 318 
' 331 
331 
342 
1565 
1565 
1565 
1565 
344 
608 
616 
622 
664 
664 
664 
664 
688 
849 
1452 

1452 

1452 


The Chevalier de Maison Rouge 20 

The Countess de Charny 20 

Nanon 10 

Joseph Balsarao; or, Memoirs of a Physician 20 

The Conspirators 10 

Isabel of Bavaria 10 

Catherine Blum 10 

Beau Tancrede; or, The Marriage Verdict (small type) 10 

Beau Tancrede; or. The Marriage Verdict (large type) 20 

The Regent’s Daughter 10 

The Three Guardsmen 20 

The Forty -five Guardsmen 20 

The Page of the Duke of Savoy 10 

Six Years Later; or. Taking the Bastile 20 

Twenty Years After 20 

Captain Paul 10 

Three Strong Men 10 

Ingenue 10 

Adventures of a Marquis. First half 20 

Adventures of a Marquis. Second half 20 

The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. I. (small type) 10 

The Mohicans of Paris. Vol I. (large type) 20 

The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. II. (large type) 20 

The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. III. (large type) 20 

The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. IV. (large type) 20 

Ascanio 10 

The Watchmaker 20 

The Two Dianas 20 

Andree de Taverney 20 

Vicomte de Bragelonne (1st Series) 20 

Vicomte do Bragelonne (2d Series) 20 

Vicomte de Bragelonne (3d Series) 20 

Vicomte de Bragelonne (4th Series) 20 

Chicot, tlie Jester 20 

Doctor Basilius 20 


Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. 1 20 

Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. II 20 

Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 
Mohicans of Paris.” Voi. m. 2 Q 


THE SEASIDE LIBHAIiY.— Ordinary Edition. 


1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. IV 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. V 20 

1561 The Corsican Brothers 10 

1592 Marguerite de Valois. An Historical Romance 20 

F. DU BOISGOBEY’S WORKS. 

709 Old Age of Monsieur Lecoq. Part 1 20 

709 Old Age of Monsieur Lecoq. Part II 20 

1062 The Severed Hand (La Main Coupee) 20 

1123 The Crime of the Opera House. First half 20 

1123 The Crime of the Opera House. Second half 20 

1142 The Golden Tress 20 

1225 The Mystery of an Omnibus 20 

1241 The Matapan Affair. First half 20 

1241 The Matapan Affair. Second half .' 20 

1307 The Robbery of the Orphans; or, Jean Tourniol’s Inherit- 
ance 20 

1356 The Golden Pig (Le Cochon d’Or). Part 1 20 

1356 The Golden Pig. Part II 20 

1432 His Great Revenge. First half 20 

1432 His Great Revenge. Second half 20 

1465 The Privateersman’s Legacy. First half 20 

1465 The Privateersman’s Legacy. Second half 20 

1481 The Ferry-boat ^Le Bac) 20 

1534 Satan’s Coach (L’Equipage du Diable). First half 20 

1534 Satan’s Coach (L’Equipage du Diable). Second half 20 

1550 The Ace of Hearts (L’As de Coeur). First half 20 

1550 The Ace of Hearts (L’As de Coeur). Second half 20 

1602 Marie-Rose; or, The Mystery. First half 20 

1602 Marie- Rose; or. The Mystery. Second half 20 

1717 Sealed Lips 20 

1742 The Coral Pin 30 

1793 Chevalier Casse-Cou. First half 20 

1793 Chevalier Casse-Cou. Second half 20 

1799 The Steel Necklace 20 

1800 Bertha’s Secret. First half 20 

1800 Bertha’s Secret. Second half 20 

1841 Merindol 20 

1842 The Iron Mask. First half 2P 


iHE SEASIDE LIBRAUY.— Ordinal, 'y Edition. 


■»! . — ■ . , - .1 -I — 

1842 The Iron Mask. Second half 2ii 

1874 Piedouche, a French Detective 20 

1885 The Sculptor’s Daughter. First half. 20 

1885 The Sculptor’s Daughter. Second half 20 

1886 Zenohie Capitaine. First half 20 

1886 Zenohie Capitaine. Second half 20 

1925 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. First half - . . . 20 

EMILE GABORIAU’S WORKS. 

408 File No. 113 20 

465 Monsieur Lecoq. First half 20 

465 Monsieur Lecoq. Second half 20 

476 The Slaves of Paris. First half 20 

476 The Slaves of Paris. Second half 20 

490 Marriage at a Venture 10 

494 The Mystery of Orcival 20 

501 Other People’s Money. 20 

509 Within an Inch of His Life 20 

515 The Widow Lcrouge 20 

523 The Clique of Gold 20 

671 The Count’s Secret. Parti 20 

671 The Count’s Secret. Part II 20 

704 Captain Contanceau; or, The Volunteers of 1792. 10 

741 The Downward Path; or, A House Built on Sand (La De- 

gringolade). Part 1 20 

741 The Downward Path; or, A House Built on Sand (La De- 

gringolade). Part II 20 

758 The Little Old Man of the Batiguolles 10 

778 The Men of the Bureau 10 

789 Promises of Marriage. 10 

813 The 13th Hussars 10 

834 A Thousand Francs Reward 10 

899 Max’s Marriage; or. The Vicomte’s Choice 10 

1184 The Marquise de Brinvilliers 20 

MARY CECIL HAY’S WORKS. 

8 The Arundel Motto 10 

407 The Arundel Motto (in large type) 20 

9 Old Myddelton’s Money . iQ 

427 Old Myddelton’s Money (in large type) ' 20 


17 Hidden Perils- 10 


TME SEASIDE ETDUARY. — Or (Unary Edition. 


434 Hidden Perils (in type) 20 

23 The Squire’s I ^^g^cy 10 

616 The Squire’-" Legacy (in large type) 20 

27 Victor Vanq\iished 20 

29 s Love Test 10 

. Nora’s Love Test (in large type) 20 

275 A Shadow on the Threshold 10 

363 Reaping the AVhirlwind 10 

384 Rack to the Old Home 10 

415 A Dark Inheritance 10 

440 The Sorrow of a Secret, and Lady Carmichael's Will 10 

686 Brenda Yorke 10 

724 For Her Dear Sake 20 

852 Missing 10 

855 Dolf’s Big Brother 10 

930 In the Holidaj's, and The Name Cut on a Gate 10 

935 Under Life’s' Key, and Other Stories ' 20 

972 Into the Shade, and Other Stories 20 

1011 My First Offer 10 

1014 Told in New England, and Other Tales 10 

1016 At the Seaside; or, A Sister’s Sacrifice 10 

1220 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

1221 Among the Ruins, and Other Stories 10 

1431 “ A Little Aversion ” • 10 

1549 Bid Me Discourse 10 

CHARLES LEVER’S WORKS. 

98 Harry Lorrequer 20 

132 Jack Hinton, the Guardsman 20 

137 A Rent in a Cloud 10 

146 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon (Triple Number) 30 

152 Arthur O’Leary 20 

168 Con Cregan 20 

169 St. Patrick’s Eve 10 

174 Kate O’Donoghue 20 

257 That Boy of Norcott’s 10 

296 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” First half 20 

296 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second half 20 

319 Davenport Dunn. First half 20 

819 Davenport Dunn. Second half 20 

464 Gerald Fitzgerald 20 


THIS RHAfimS LWRAnr-iilrainan muti&n,. 


470 The Fortunes of Gleticore 20 

529 Lord Kilgobbin 20 

646 Maurice Tiernay 20 

566 A Day’s Ride 20 

609 Barrington 20 

633 Sir Jasper Carew, Knight 2^' 

657 Tlie Martins of Cro’ Martin. Part I .ou 

657 The Martins of Cro’ Martin. Part II . . 20 

822 Tony Butler 20 

872 Luttrell of Arran. Part I 20 

872 Luttrell of Arran. Part II 20 

951 Paul Gosslctt’s Confessions 10 

965 One of Them. First half 20 

965 One of Them. Second half 20 

989 Sir Brook Fossbrooke. Part 1 20 

989 Sir Brook Fossbrooke. Part II 20 

1235 The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Polly 20 

1309 The Dodd Family Abroad. First half 20 

1309 The Dodd Family Abroad. Second half 20 

1342 Horace Templeton 20 

1394 Roland Cashel. First half 20 

1394 Roland Cashel. Second half 20 

1496 The Daltons; or, Three Roads in Life. First half 20 

1496 The Daltons; or, Three Roads in Life. Second lialf 20 

GEORGE MACDONALD’S WORKS. 

455 Paul Faber, Surgeon 20 

491 Sir Gibbie 20 

595 The Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood 20 

606 The Seaboard Parish 20 

627 Thomas Wingfold, Curate 20 

643 The Vicar’s Daughter 20 

668 David Elginbrod 20 

677 St. George and St. Michael 20 

790 Alec Forbes of Ilowglen 20 

887 Malcolm 20 

922 Mary Marston 20 

938 Guild Court. A London Story 20 

948 The Marquis of Lossie 20 

962 Robert Falconer 20 

1375 Castle Warlock: A Homely Romance 20 


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Munro’s Publicatk 


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448 Pictures From Ital.v% andT 

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449 Peeress and Player, By 

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451 Market Harborough, and 

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452 In the West Countrie. By 

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453 The Lottery Ticket. By 

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454 The Mystery of Edwin 

Charles Dickens 

455 Lazarus in London. By 

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456 Sketches by Boz. Illu; 

Every-day Life and Eve 
pie. By Charles Dicker 
4.57 The Russians at the Gate 

Bv Charles Blarvin 

458 A Week of Passion ; or, T1 
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“ly Edward denies 


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